Ten days or so out from the Inauguration, as I write this, the gods only know what will happen next. But one thing is sure, when you anger the righteous titans at the Wall Street Journal, it may be time for you to surrender the last of your thunderbolts, realize you are not Zeus after all and slink off with the ambrosia of your Mickey D’s and the nectar of your Diet C’s and Orange your way to Mar-a-Sluggo. (That would be Nancy P and C Schumer, the former who may just impeach.) O, I’m forgetting, they don’t want you down there either. Is there an Elba, you “short-fingered vulgarian”, as Spy magazine called him, you mangiest of Twitts, that will welcome you, while you wile away your time, plotting your return, before being ultimately defeated at Turnbury Golf Course in Scotland?
Nicola Sturgeon, First Minister, says that if OUR Dear Leader tries to play golf at Turnbury on Inauguration Day, he would have to quarantine for 10 days. Is Turnbury Bonnie Prince Donnie’s St. Helena, where Napoleon spent the last six years of his life under extraordinary guard? The net tells me that “Plots to rescue him included those using yachts, steamboats and balloons — and one was said to have even involved a submarine.” The Proud Boys, are you listening?
(Perhaps if the rescue is successful, the PB’s could take him to the Napoleon House in New Orleans, built by the good folks there in anticipation of the real Napoleon’s arrival. He never did. And Our Dear Leader never will.)
After the storming of our nation’s Capitol, there was a dignified Black man, a veteran of 37 years on the Capitol DC police, who was interviewed. He said that the top brass were looking the other way because they didn’t want to “displease 45”, referring in the vernacular to the sitting Prez.
Senators Hawley and Cruz, after in a perfunctory manner calling out the rioters, went on to challenge the election results. Senator Mitt Romney was sitting right behind Hawley as he spewed his conspiracy theories. If Romney’s eyes had been daggers, Hawley would have died a painful death.
Psychologists suggest that when conspiracy theorists are shown that what they espouse is bunk, instead of the scales falling from their eyes, they hunker down, hunking with the bunk and take not another tipple, but a great big gulp of the Kool-Aid.
I grew up liking Kool-Aid, the orange my fave. Of course, that was before Diet C, the vile and poisonous elixir of the fallen gods.
All Hail to 46!
Lonnie Carter is a writer who lives in Falls Village. Email him at lonniety@comcast.net.
What happens next?