“Maturity is seeing through the eyes of another.”
----Quotations of Chairman Joe
Caesar Disgustus has made his reappearance after nearly a week of silence. The Turd hadn't shown his face, nor called in to “Fox and Fiends” his morning propaganda outlet. Throughout the week rumors ran rampant that he had either suffered a major health event or, perhaps, he was dead. The prospect of his passing is, of course, awaited with baited breath as millions clutch their pearls in high hopes. Many, it was rumored, were planning the inevitable celebration, the announcement of which is sure to send hundreds of millions dancing in the streets.
“ I finally died
which started the whole world living”
---Brothers Gibb, “I Started a Joke”.
He hasn't been looking well. His ankles are swollen, He is overweight. His eyes are puffy and he has deep dark bruises on his hands which he desperately tries to hide with ill-applied makeup. He was recorded walking with uncertain balance as he zigzagged down the red carpet he had thrown before Putin. But, as Lawrence O'Brien on his MSNBC broadcast “The Last Word” has noted: “If Donald Trump suffered a stroke or was in advanced stages of dementia or Alzheimer's how would you know?”
How would one know indeed.
Even his critics miss the point. Telling us with a straight face that he is less cogent than he was ten, five or even a year ago, they speculate that perhaps there is some deterioration. But he has always been this way. He's always been pulling shit out of his ass and throwing it up against the wall. He has always been resistant, even immune, to immutable fact. Like any toddler, he has always lived in a fantasy world in which reality is re-ordered to his mere whim.
How this nation can tolerate this escapes me. The spectacles surrounding his cabinet meetings in which Pam Blondi, Howard Nutlick and the sycophants that surround him spend hours not discussing solutions to our nation's unraveling, but drone on in high praise to the Supreme Leader as he sits on his throne like a bloated toad, like Jabba the Hut, on a stool basking, as he struggles to stay awake, in their faux praise. This is beneath the dignity of the office. This is beneath the dignity of this republic. These are disgusting spectacles befitting our Caesar Disgustus, our Orange Turd, our Golden Swine. These are perhaps the kind of scenes one would witness among children at play. Children who have not yet outgrown their sadism. Children who have yet to learn to see through the eyes, nor feel the pain of the “other”. Children who are yet to learn that actions have consequence. And children they are.
I'm reminded of a story related by tRUMP historian David Cay Johnston in his The Making of Donald Trump”, in which he relates that as a boy he persuaded his friends to throw stones at a baby in its crib so that he could hear it cry. They were too immature to see through the eyes of another, much less feel the pain. They can only revel in it. That, in prelude, is the relationship of Caesar Disgustus to his adoring Maggots. They inflict pain because they cannot feel it; they can only revel in it. And pain is the point.
This is Gangster Fascism and it is time bring it to an end.
In any case we can treasure our brief respite from this madness; from the stench of Disgustus; from the pungent, foul, putrid odor; for, albeit briefly, we could breathe again.
Impeach and Imprison the Bastard.
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