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“The truth is yo and I is playin against teams — large, well-organized teams that don give a hind-end whether you and me live or die.”

Hardworking redneck Bubba Gray has become obsolete in a United States of Rainbowstan where ‘pre-citizens’ surge the borders, purple-haired PC school-marms make the rules, and reckless smart-alec robots drive taxis. As others compete to be the most Woke, Bubba just tries to get through his day without committing micro-aggressions, until he finally decides to fight back — with unpredictable consequences for everyone.

Surrounded by a vibrant cast of hilarious, larger than life characters, Bubba needs to find a new team if he doesn’t want to keep playing on the losing side. With a laugh on every page, JIHAD BUBBA is an insightful satire on modern Wokeness.



A few moments passed and the inner door swung open—an almost mirror image of the purple-haired teenaged girl appeared in the doorway except for an even sheerer tank-top revealing more cleavage and no bra, more pink mixed with the purple, and more overweight—to phrase it gently—with two nose-rings, one of which had a chain linked to devil-horned spectacles propped on her nose. Colorful tattoos rainbowed across her arms and legs. Two tattoos over her breasts read: ‘Coma—Slammer.’

At a signal from the therapist, the waiting room—including the robot with the faded makeup—filed through the open door and into a room made up to resemble an Indian teepee, complete with smoke hole at the top, hand-carved wooden ridge poles in the sides, and deerskin drums—the word ‘imitation’ stenciled on each. Under them lay a rug of the purest yak-hair embroidered with encouraging signs of gibbets with stick-figures of white men hanging by their necks. Suspended on one interior teepee section was a picture of a sad Indian with a plastic tear on his cheek as if witnessing the logging of old-growth trees. On another was a picture of Martin Luther King, Jr., with matching plastic tear as if witnessing the hosing of black marchers at Selma.

Bubba hesitated, his eyes searching for a chair in the teepee.

“You won’t find any chairs in our Back-To-Nature-Wigwam, citizen,” clipped the purple and pink-haired therapist. “We sit cross-legged as Nature intended, like the gentle Indians—before they were genocided by white men.” The therapist tossed a glance at Bubba and folded her arms. “Sit down, citizens.”

They sat on the rug cross-legged.

She continued, “I will introduce myself. My ‘slave label’, imposed on me in my previous life by the white man’s patriarchy, was ‘Ms. Ruth’. After my liberation—that is, after my divorce—” Bubba lifted eyebrows at Luann, “I reverted to my true name: ‘Citizen Root’, indicating my ancient ancestry in the sacred homeland of the gentle Indians: Mother Africa.” Bubba eyerolled to Luann, noting the therapist’s whiter-than-white European skin.

“And as my preferred title—and it is required by law that you address people by their preferred title—I go by ‘Dig Root’. You, citizens, may prefer to be addressed as ‘Mr. Gray’, or ‘Ms. Million’, or ‘Mix Lavender’,” the teen girl with the purple hair smiled, “or even as ‘Non-Entitled’.” The chubby kid nodded, brushing pizza remnants.

“And keep in mind, citizens, that by law you may change your own title any time you wish, and then others must address you by your new appellation. . . I prefer the appellation ‘Dig Root’. Therefore, you must address me that way.” She sat prim and proper, arms folded, heavy chain gently tugging her glasses down the bridge of her nose in the direction of ‘Coma’. . .



“Do not read this book straight through. Read it until you burst out laughing. . .Science fiction consists in taking recognizable characters, or archetypes, from the Present and inserting them into a future that is invented or predicted by the writer. In the case of Jihad Bubba, our protagonist is a divorced middle-aged redneck mechanic, and augmented him for the future. One could say that the Future, much like alcohol, only makes you more of what you are. The Good Writer giveth and the Good Writer taketh away. . .The mobile home That Bubba lives in is not empty, He shares it with his wife, child, and at least one other relation lives with him. This is a ridiculous situation as his wife not only owns the trailer in which he lives but also the house in which he used to live.

The great Internet giants of our time have finally merged into one great tyrant called GoogFaceTwit; And similarly. . . the semiliterate regional accent has merged into one lowest common denominator version of English that anyone can learn. Bubba may have a default southern drawl, but he and everyone around him Fritz easily back and forth between highly colloquialized and regionally accented versions of the English language. One society at last! Television is not only still on the air, it is mandatory viewing by the government and also being used for continuing education. In fact, long dead–and still thoroughly obnoxious– talk show hosts. . .are used to teach. . .College sociology.

Bubba and his wife no longer argue about who will do the cooking and the cleaning, they argue about who will tell the robot to do the cooking and the cleaning. Bubba’s morbidly obese to the point of being wheelchair-bound [ex-] mother-in-law. . .gorge[s] herself on crawdaddies and canned beer. Commuting has been rendered [into a] death-defying act of a superhuman by the Janus, a self-driving car that looks the same from the front as from the rear. This would seem to be a reference to Runaway, a futuristic cop movie starring Tom Selleck about cops dealing with runaway robots and the homicidal hackers who use them for homicidal purposes. The book itself can be seen as a sort of futuristic parody of Falling Down.”  –David M. (5 stars)