February 21, 2019: My Pet Rock, Stoic Dignity, President Stone

I found it on the shore of the Eastern Bay, washed up on the beach near Petosky, Hemingway country. Forged in the furnace of mother earth, tempered by the weight of a mighty glacier, proud of its ancient heritage, and unwilling to witness the slow undoing of those rights to which nature has always been committed, it beckoned me to lift it up and bring it home.

I was puzzled, uncertain what to do with it. Ground to a lustre by the weight of ancient ice and polished by endless waves, the bespeckled stone presents a stoic certain dignity. Wherein would I find a place suitable to its majesty?

Then, it came to me.

I remembered a long time ago that a wag, in an effort to present the world with something it didn't have, and which—in his telling-- it desperately needed, fell upon the idea of selling pet rocks. A rock, suitably encased in it's own 'dog house' as it were, we were told, was always there, always faithful. It makes no demands. It costs little. “That's it!”, I shouted and went about creating a suitable home.

But wherein to reside? Home of course, up upon the mantle. But in what kind of surroundings? In what would it be encased?

Then it came to me.

“The White House,” I laughed. So I went about constructing a replica of the White House into which, upon completion, I introduced its recently “elevated” resident.

And there it sits in all its majesty. It is a veritable oracle of wisdom, sitting silent in the Executive Mansion. This is no drama queen occupying the Oval Office. When you bring your troubles here you are greeted with stone silence, in your ears only the voice of your own conscience. And what better guide could one ask? Moreover, President Stone, as it is reverently called, will not appeal to your worst instincts, it cannot be brought to repeat our prejudices. It is made of sterner stuff, from the very materials from which man has long sought refuge.  Its upbringing simply will not permit it; for unlike the unnatural mating of a woman and Orangutan, Stone is one of nature's own. It knows from whence it came. It is proud of its ancient heritage; but it is an understated pride, a pride that does not need, nor does it require, constant reaffirmation.

Yes, my pet rock is far superior to what now defiles the Executive Mansion in Washington. The 'president-in-residence' here needs no need to paint his face; no need to demean and belittle; no need to wage war upon the world around it; no need for constant chaos and drama; no need to bear false witness. It does not whine and whimper; its sleep is not burdened by dark conspiracy.  The occupant of this Executive Mansion rests solid, serene and secure. My pet rock makes a greater 'president'.  It is older; it presents to the world more wisdom and better judgment; it is comfortable in it's own patina;  it does no harm.

But above all, it is far more competent, intelligent and articulate than our presiding Caesar Disgustus.

Say what you will.  You can call it madness, but at least it was gleaned, like Hamm's Beer, from the land of sky blue waters, not flushed by Russian Agents from the underbelly of Gotham's lower intestines. 

 

“An' Br'er Putin he jus' laugh and laugh”

Impeach and Imprison.