No One Cares About Stephen Miller, So I Must Save Him

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Stephen Miller, deputy chief of staff to illegitimate President Donald Jockitch Trump, has but one lone person remotely resembling someone he could call a friend. That is I. Me. The person speaking. And as his only facsimile of a friend, it is my duty to confront him with his delusions, disabuse him of his false knowledge, and save him from unwittingly suffering his comeuppance.

The fact that Stephen Miller stands before the public to speak his diseased mind is only one of many clues that no one truly cares about him. No one loves him. No one cares enough to tell him, “Stephen, addressing the nation at a podium is something you should not do.

“You resemble too much a Boschian grotesque rendered in animatronic form by a crew of aged, perverse roboticists visually impaired by cataracts, with compromised hand/eye coordination and motor skills, hidden for years secretly working on this profane project in the combination dungeon and laboratory beneath the Disney Studios under what they imagine are the orders of the glowering frozen head of Walt Disney. They believe the head has commanded them to do this and haven’t the will to disobey their hallucination although they know it is a blasphemous task, bringing a misshapen eggheaded scarecrow Joseph Goebbels meat marionette to accursed life.

Not even his sickening wife has the barest iota of simple humanity to extend to him and guide him. He is more alone than any living thing in this world. His is a solitude without even the pathetically humble usefulness of a bellringing Quasimodo much less a party-planning Hop-Frog.

How can such a cast-off ort, detached as he is from all compassion, his own and that of any others, be called human? Is an ant, somehow tolerated in its colony yet effectively adrift from it, still an ant? How is a hominin being, untethered and tacitly rejected from all connection, a human?

Is the human not a social animal? Can the bunraku ningyō Stephen Miller be classified Homo sapiens? Or is he sui generis? Homo singularis et nauseam movens?

How else to explain his extended polemic not just denigrating the ideology but insulting the appearance of those he would like to confine and torture in concentration camps? Such public remarks only draw attention to his own severe congenital deformities. Do those around him delude themselves that they exercise compassion when they prevent him from examining himself in mirrors? Do they so pity and condescend to him that they shrink from allowing him the dignity of seeing a clear reflection of himself?

What cowards. There is no individual as cowardly as one of a circle of associates who will not at least grant an ambulating globular-skulled skeleton the merest alm of self-knowledge. For shame.

And that is why it is left up to me to save the clueless proto simian from the misery he doesn’t even know he inhabits. Not to mention the future misery he courts, nay, to which he has all but pledged his troth.

But, given that his wife is bereft of all value as a connubial partner, it wouldn’t technically be bigamy were he to enter into such an engagement. The worthlessness of his current marriage is, ironically, what legally allows him to tread so dangerously close to enslaving himself within another worthless snare.

I could easily renounce any responsibility to the reviled creature. I could content myself in the knowledge that a small, tough, close-knit team of brilliant ultracommies will one day sit in the White House, having taken and occupied it through force, prepared to undo what 250 years of mendacity and self-deceit have built. I know it will take a few decades but Miller and Rubio, Trump and Hegseth, all their peons and bootlickers, will fall before the new ultracommie weapons being developed. I look forward to watching the ultracommie lasers burn Trump’s sons’ genitalia and eyes to handfuls of minuscule grains of powder.

But as much as it warms my heart to know that Stephen Miller’s intestines will festoon the Oval Office like bunting, his skull sliced open and his brains used to make a post-modern abstract on plywood titled “Portrait of Hitler as a Trampled Abortion,” and the sight of The Reflecting Pool filled with the blood of the new Nazis, the MAGA filth who presume to tell us how to think, their bled-out corpses dangling like hooked hogs, pale husks though they already are, more bleached, bloodless and pale will they dangle – as avid as I am to enjoy that world toward which we inexorably and inevitably sail, I have to decline to allow Stephen Miller to sink unenlightened into the tarpit of his folly.

He must be saved. Not from the revenge he most assuredly deserves, no. He must be saved from suffering his deserved fate without the awareness that he deserves it. He deserves to know that his violent, sanguineous, visceral demise is his due reward and his fault.

Somehow this entomoid figure has been put under a spell, whether through self-hypnosis or through the demonic machinations of a djinn, made to believe cruelty and bigotry are expressions of a noble purpose. He associates authoritarian violence against dissent, inhumanly filthy prisons, barbaric surgeries to sterilize those he esteems racially inferior, with the US flag and church picnics and white people singing bland lyrics about Jesus and edelweiss.

He must be made to look at himself and see the tumors of spiritual infection festering and suppurating in pustules and fistulas splitting the dermal rind of his soul. Before he succumbs to the gangrene spreading through his misbegotten, miscreant body, he must be made to understand how his rot is his own doing, is simply justice, if there still exists such a thing since the reemergence of the movement he has ensconced himself within and seen fit to enable.

For woe betide the man, if man he be. And would he be a man, he must face himself. As the character, Willis, played by the actor Richard Lawson, in the movie Scream Blacula Scream (1973 American International Pictures) laments when he finds upon awakening as a vampire that his reflection fails to appear in a mirror, “A man has got to see his face.” Not only is the unexamined life not worth living, but a human without self-knowledge is no human at all.

I could save him. If only Stephen Miller would listen to and read this message, he might have a chance at bringing himself into the human fold.

As it is, however, he remains a hollow man, headpiece filled with straw, alas, floating on the high, merciless seas alone and puny at the center of the widening, darkening, increasingly cold and friendless horizon. To be gradually shredded bit by bit as microscopic fauna, sea monkeys and krill, nibble and gnaw away at the soggy fabric of his vacated corpse. Until naught is left of Stephen Miller but microscopic threads of sea monkey excrement awash in the ocean of oblivion.