⚡ July 12, 2024
When He Is Gone 👻
One day, Donald Trump will be gone. Whether you love him or loathe him, there will come a time when he will no longer fill the horizon, and he will be greatly missed and greatly remembered and greatly examined. It’s undeniable that he’s left a mark, and it will hurt when he’s gone. Things will feel different, and you know how much we hate change.
But, as any prepper will warn, it’s alway prudent to begin thinking about the inevitable After-Time ahead of time. A well-stocked bunker contains board games for when one is bored and books for when the TV no longer rages. Therefore, we should map out new and quiet intellectual pursuits when the electricity of Trumpism either fizzles out or suddenly goes dark. In the here and now we roil and simmer with Mr. Trump’s countless toils and tribulations. We check the threads for the latest news and then we chew on it a bit and dream on the undigested parts. Every single day, without fail. He has won our minds, if not our hearts.
Meanwhile, I had originally grabbed the photo of Representative Rose and son to illustrate how futile it is to try to control a whirling dervish with logic or words of any kind. Big bullies are deadly; little bullies are wiley. And then the debate happened and our secure silo of echoing slogans suddenly broke apart and the ground began to shake. I felt the same despair watching Biden stumble as I did when Hillary crumbled in the early morning shadows of the World Trade Center.
Was she merely sick or was she dying? Did the extra pillows on her chair mean that she had cancer of the spine and she was dying? Aren’t we all dying anyway? So you admit she is dying! Does anybody remember the Enquirer covers with a Hillary death mask, thanks to Photoshop filters? It was all a big fat lie, with actual receipts presented at the most recent trial.
Upon reflection, I think Biden was the embodiment, nay, the dictionary definition of gobsmacked throughout that debate. If you remember the last debate he had with Trump, you might forgive him for a little bit of PTSD as he stood on a similar stage with the bigness and the color that is Trump. Toe to toe, bleary eyeball to sneering and hissing … and more than once, he just stood there, agog.
Why did we turn on the one who was being beaten? For some of us, it was George McFly getting humiliated by Biff Tannen over and over again, and the moderators just pretended it wasn’t happening. The aftermath has exposed a huge generational rift as Joe McFly brushes himself off and says, in a shaky voice, that he wants a rematch. Our kids – Gen X – want him retired, in a nice care home somewhere safe and quiet.
All the news anchors I love the most are my children’s age, and they are pretty angry with our presidential father figure. They fear he can’t protect us, and I am hoping that all the whispers that he is anywhere from doddering to literally a crisis actor who might also be a crack addict are coming from the same pizza parlour back rooms that gave us ritual blood libel. I am hoping we figure out the truth about both our candidates’ real health before it’s too late.
Only time will tell. For now, I can’t watch my many political shows with the same enthusiasm my mom had for her soaps. The young anchors are demanding ponies and GameBoys for Christmas and I’ve taken to organizing my beads and my memoirs in the new-found quiet hours between 4 p.m. and midnight. Respect for our elders and respect for the office is gone. What remains is fame and man, woman, camera.
Time will tell on us all. 🐔