It will likely come as no surprise to those who read this space frequently that I am a bit of an eclectic person. This translates directly to my clothing. For games that I might broadcast or announce, I’ll likely have some sort of sparkly jacket in the team colors or some type of loud outfit. I like to support the event, while also standing out a bit.
Color is important in life, I find. And with America’s birthday coming up, I got myself a button down silk shirt emblazoned with the Preamble to the US Constitution on it.
Sadly, I hadn’t read the preamble since I was in civics class. And, because of my shirt, I began to read it again. You know the one, “We the people, in order to form a more perfect union…”
That’s when my collar started chafing. Not because of the silk, mind you, but because the phrase “a more perfect union” felt like a punchline to a joke none of us signed up for. If you’ve watched five minutes of cable news, scrolled through politics-Twitter (still calling it X feels like rebranding a garbage dump as a spa), or attended a family barbecue where Uncle Gary starts a rant about “the deep state corn lobby,” you know America’s current vibe is less “perfect union” and more “group chat where everyone’s yelling in ALL CAPS while misspelling ‘you’re.’”
The Founding Fathers probably assumed their descendants would continue chasing that “more perfect” ideal through civil discourse and compromise. Adorable. Today, we’d need a constitutional amendment just to agree on which pothole to fill. Can you imagine James Madison and Alexander Hamilton fist-bumping over a draft that included “We the people, in order to form a slightly less unhinged union, establish marginally functional governance, and avoid throwing actual beverages at each other during State of the Unions”?
Modernizing the preamble would require concessions to our new national religion: being loud and focused on the self. We’d have “We the Influencers, in order to form a more viral union, establish brand deals, ensure domestic tranquility through curated Instagram Stories, provide for the common defense against algorithm changes…” The original framers had quill pens; we have personal branding. Progress!
Even the word “union” feels generous. Nowadays, we’re more like a collection of random samples than a unified group. Less of the Beatles “Abbey Road” and more “Let it Be”—a dozen loosely related factions circling unconnected sounds and independent themes. The only thing uniting us is the shared belief that our personal utopia involves everyone else finally seeing things our way.
And “more perfect”? In 2025, suggesting anything can be “perfected” is like claiming you’ve created a completely silent vacuum cleaner at a rock concert. We’ve got lawmakers filibustering weather alerts, school boards debating whether Pythagoras promoted critical race theory, and municipal governments suing roadside lemonade stands over taxation. If the framers showed up now, they’d take one look at our discourse, mutter “nah, we good,” and hop back on their wooden denture-powered time horses.
But here’s the twist: Maybe the chaos is the point. A “more perfect union” wasn’t a finish line—it was a permission slip to keep trying, and, yes, often failing. Even if “trying” looks like duct-taping a democracy that occasionally forgets how to democracy. The genius wasn’t in the words; it was in leaving them vague enough for each generation to argue over, like a family heirloom quilt everyone’s fighting to add their own mismatched patch to. Just so long as one of the main themes of the revolution – the rejection of a king or one authoritarian vision – was front and center. Even that is being hotly debated right now.
So I’ll keep wearing the shirt. Not because I think we’re nailing the “more perfect” part, but because every time someone side-eyes my gaudy preamble print and mutters “delusional pansy,” I get to say: “Hey, at least we’re all disagreeing on-schedule. The Constitution predicted you’d be like this.” Happy Birthday, America. Let’s aim for “marginally improved union” by 2026. Baby steps.
(Follow Kamler on Twitter–or X–where you’ll find him as @chriskamler)
