"The point is, you can never be too greedy." - Donald John Trump
The needle grazed fifty while my eyes were resting. My pelvis felt like it was shattered.
It was not that I felt old. Or more beleaguered than the next inebriated wretch.
It was just that I felt out of step with prevailing weather patterns.
The world was fucked. The fat man padding restlessly back and forth upstairs until my brain felt like it might erupt out my nose in a Pharaoh's sneeze.
America seemed hell bent on electing an imbecile to office, and while I never once fancied to venture far from my island home - to holiday in extremis - the mosques were piling up in rows while the beach huts winced and paddled out into the sea. Just to escape the crowds.
The niqab had all but eclipsed the ubiquitous little black dress in all the smartest periodicals.
Going postal was the fashion.
Strapping on the explosives vest. Posing for Instagram with the pin between thumb and forefinger. YouTube.
In our schools, the lockers bristled not with sticks of incense but clips and magazines.
The ones getting stoned had been accused of adultery.
The KKK shared column inches with the PKK. The ballots were not rigged, they were governed by market stalls peddling trumpery. Tiny hands fluttered like blades at work on a rabbit. Palming coins, shuffling cups.
I took in a young Jack Russell to see how far I would get walking the dog. I listened to Emerson, Lake & Palmer just to punish myself and found myself implausibly wanting more. The puppy pissed on my carpet. I did not warm to the neighbourly practice of wrestling its turds into plastic bags to dispose of them discreetly. It escaped and I laboured after it in the dark, attempting to lure it away from the genitals of other dogs with rawhide chews purchased from the corner shop.
It is not that the Donald is some kind of magician.
The sleight of hand is pure deception.
The circus tent is straining under all that political correctness. The global village has been commandeered by suicide bombers, geriatrics in a national lottery to sock the patsy in the jaw. The barbershops are overrun by skinheads. Merle Haggard is back in the saloon.
They might as well share a joint and fuck each other in the ass on stage like people used to do back when Cassius Clay welched on Uncle Sam.
Obama. Merkel.
The baby boomers are having none of it.
They are too close to retirement to countenance their Miami burning down like Aleppo. Beirut. Old Baghdad.
The Jack Russell packed her bags after just three nights.
Millie. She was a sweet little thing. Like Michael Jackson's pet rat.
A week after she had gone I could not get the smell of shit out from under my nails. My balls. It followed me around like a migrant in cheap cologne.
4 comments:
Too much. Somehow something seems left unsaid when dog shit cannot be found on the same page as an entry about American politics, perhaps all politics as the American variety shapes everyone's it would seem, these days, as Nico once sang.
The Trump spectacle demands new global standards in the weighing and measuring of shit.
That so many Americans seem sold on the notion of substituting business acumen for integrity and competence scares the crap out me. Unsubstantiated acumen, at that. It is surely only a matter of time before the future president of the USA is appointed by Citibank. Without resort to consultation.
First, they gave us Reagan. While he could barely remember his lines at times, at least he was comfortable working from the flimsiest of scripts. At least he was familiar with golfing etiquette.
Now they present us with the clown.
It has long been their desire to altogether dispense with the cumbersome need for electoral process. That Trump comes out with any old shit as he sees fit may prove embarrassing, but only in the short term. Stick a nickel in his slot and that fuck will dance to any tune which did not make the X-Factor.
I never would have thought to see so many farmers singing the bank's praises.
I have never seen so many cunts with beards singing from the same sheet.
Trump is indeed the clown, but he wears his swastika with arrogant conceit. & the singing sheets all have points, but only at the top of their conical masks.
There is hope that the shit will be used for fertilizer to grow a better world with health care as a right for every man, woman, & child, with an economy that works for all, not just a handful of wealthy elites. & that the growth will stop the erosive slide toward oligarchy where the political 'reality' is controlled by a handful of billionaire families.
I remain optomistic even as I salt away purloined Krugerrands & falsified exit documents.
If Trump should get in, whether it be just by the skin of his teeth, there is no where in the world that will be safe.
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