The Observer, who knows a thing or three about anonymity, found our self nonetheless shocked by the recent New York Times op-ed by the anonymous King or Queen of the White House Molepeople, the person who appears to have responded to the Emperor having no clothes not by telling his Nekkid Excellency to put some damn pants on, but by getting buck nekkid, too, and calling his or her junk-out bit-waggling a sacrifice for a nation that oughta damn well be grateful for it.
Ol’ Lodestar could, you know, actually step forward and try to do something to end this weekly, daily, hourly and occasionally millisecondly exercise in stupidity. But it appears that in the halls of power, it has been decided by our nameless, unaccountable saviors that a Useful Idiot is a terrible thing to waste, especially when there are regulations helping keep our drinking water Benzene-free to be imploded, taxes on the Lex Luthors of the world to be whittled down to zero, and smirking, right-wing scumbags to be shoehorned into the Supreme Court.
Nixon had his long national nightmare. Bill C. had his death duel with Ken Starr over a blowjob. Obama had his burger slathered in fancy-ass Dijon mustard. Dorito Mussolini and his enablers, meanwhile, seem to have succeeded in going several clicks better than all comers by creating and imprisoning us all in a “Matrix”-style alternate reality in which up is down, days feel like years and every cup, bowl, bass boat, chair, copy of People magazine, tongue depressor and potted plant is made of literal, carefully sculpted dogshit, which a solid 40 percent of the population and 80-plus percent of Republicans insist is the absolute finest quality shit ever made, without a doubt, no question about it, completely odorless, mostly flavorless and not too bad to stain, and they are happy to have it, sir.
Speaking of days like years and seconds like hours, can you believe this lard-lubed trailer park orgy of a presidency isn’t even halfway over? Can you believe it’s not even a quarter over if this country willingly continues its purgatory in the Shit Matrix by re-electing the racist sack of moist hair currently stinking up the White House? What, dear God, did any of us ever do to deserve this?
By this point in the Donald Trump Show, we thought we had been rendered damn nigh unshockable, our shock button pushed and pushed until it became a smoldering black hole by Good People On Both Sides and flame-haired Ruskie spies tunneling into the NRA; sappers in the wire on Facebook and the revolving door of idiots at the White House; 10,000 Angry Old Man Shouts At Cloud Tweets and occasions in which the leader of the most powerful and generous nation on the planet kicked our closest allies in the cods while calling Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong Un and every petty dictator and despot short of President Snow from those “Hunger Games” books a heckuva fella who really knows how to run a country. But there it was: a moment with the capacity to shock. An admission of an ongoing, unchecked American coup against the addled orange moron elevated to the highest office in the land. Cowardly scurryings in the walls of the Oval Office, noted as the highest duty, honor and patriotism. These are the days of our lives.
Call Omarosa Mangastronaut-Newman a scheming, soap-opera weasel if you want, but we say it’s a good thing somebody was secretly recording this shit. A hunnert years from now, after all the skullduggery is through and the combatants are all safely in the ground or their ashes scattered in a secure, secret location so as not to create a shrine for neo-Nazis and Klanners, nobody is gonna believe any of this really happened without auditory proof. Hell, we don’t even believe it is really happening, and we’re living it. Someday, starry-eyed grandchildren will sit at the knee of Gramps and Nana and tell us that we’re full of crap as a Christmas goose, calling us Fake News as we spit and sputter, skipping away in their pigtails and short pants while we swear and bedamn that what we’re saying is true: that America was once run by a guy who we wouldn’t feel comfortable letting use a can opener. For now, though, onward we all trudge through Turdsburg, looking desperately for the exit sign. Lord, let us all find it soon.