Throughout this entire ten-year American Caligula nightmare, I’ve managed to keep my spirits up. Mostly. Sort of. Okay, every now and then. Call it whistling past the graveyard, or the Pollyanna in me elbowing her way out, or flat out traumatic denial, I’ve tried to console myself and those around me in any number of ways.
For instance, when Li’l Duce won the 2016 election, I said — again, to myself and to others — Well, the majority of voters didn’t want him; or, Don’t worry, this is just a bump in the road; or any of a dozen fairy tales I lullabied myself to sleep with each night.
That got me through the first five years — a year of campaigning and then the 45th Presidency — with my sanity and whatever shreds of optimism I had left intact. Then, the Mad King did it again, rose from the grave, ghoul that he is, and won the 2024 election. I hit bottom that November night nine months ago, some time around 2 or 3am, when CNN ran the headline, Trump Wins Presidency.
You may as well have told me my best friend had died.
Which, come to think of it, would be less traumatic to me than the ascension of a wannabe dictator in this holy land that I’ve long tried to kid myself was immune to that kind of horseshit.
And, speaking of ascension, the Greed-Monkey-in-Chief has started a fundraising campaign…, no, wait, I mean a fraudulent scam asking for donations of $15 from tens of millions of Americans so he can sit at the right hand of the god he has never shown any indication he believes in, honors, worships or otherwise is on speaking terms with. Li’l Duce wrote in a message from one of his political action committees accounts, “I want to try and get to heaven.”
Fitting, isn’t it, that the Hustler in the White House would imply it takes dough, big dough — your dough — to achieve his eternal oneness with the creator of the universe. I mean, religious clip artists have been a staple in American movies and novels since…, oh, since forever. And need I run a list of televangelists who’ve fleeced gullible saps to the tune of billions of dollars over the years?
Li’l Duce‘s going to rake in piles of cash with his plea. God, he says, saved him from that assassination attempt near Butler, PA 13 months ago. That’ll go a long way to convincing the criminally credulous that their boy is in good with Holy Trinity’s top banana. Many of those easy marks already are used to forking over their hard-earned cash to blatherers, crooks, sharpies, smoothies, and flimflam men clever enough to drop god’s name while holding their hands out.
The fantasy tale I’m telling myself these days is, As soon as the Hoodlum-in-Chief dies, the Republic Party’s gonna fold in on itself. The GOP these days no longer has a platform, no longer espouses a philosophy, no longer says anything but Hail to the Chief. Without him, they’ll be rudderless, leaderless, pointless.
You think that mascaraed pimp JD Vance is going to assume the mantle post-Trump? Hell, he’ll be pilloried for the unforgivable sin of not being Trump. Look what happened to George H.W. Bush post-Ronald Reagan. And Reagan was only a saint, not a demigod like Li’l Duce.
The Saint Ronald Reagan Candle — Swear to God, It’s Real.
The idea that the Republicans will implode after Trump helps me get to sleep at night. Still, the lullaby is getting harder for me to hum.