Let Us Go Back to the Good Ole Days

The chaos of the moment, the shell-game of shills, con artists and bumbling grifters has never quite reached the level of nonsense that we can now contemplate with open-mouthed disbelief (if only we could flex our eyeballs). The magicians perform sleight of hand for an increasingly bored audience - even being played for fools eventually becomes tedious. We see wrestling and motorcycle jumps across the wasteland of the vandalized White House. Nobody gives two shits. I can easily imagine a revitalized US flag, the ordinary front porch one with the stars and stripes, but with superimposed symbols - a dollar sign, a Jewish star, a swastika and the above slogan, “no one gives two shits.” Even the president of the United States - the man who a much younger Bob Dylan horrifyingly warned us would “have to stand naked” - can’t keep his eyes open.

The no one gives two shits of America! The pundits ask over and over, where the fuck did Donald Trump come from? The unanswerable question - why this particular moron suddenly eclipses all of the dingbat presidents that ran concurrently with Ben Franklin up until Mickey Mouse and Jerry Springer? America could care less. The president is a cuck to the deep state, a scarecrow blowing in the breezes of corporate euphoria. Why not a cretin, an imbecile, a post grad student at Alzheimer University? Why waste brains on a white lawn jockey? Why not a ceramic president?

That is our crumbling country - once the bastion of pretense, the alleged beacon of freedom, opportunity and equality, now shrunken into a cheap carnival. The US is like an ancient starlet, reduced by years of alcoholic excess to being a bag lady. Sort of like Trump, a once glamorous icon of ambition now subverted into a puddle of jowls, a set of heavy lids and the picture postcard of irrelevance. Sometimes reality sneaks up like a tiger on tiptoes.

Imagine the 1927 New York Yankees - the greatest baseball team in the glorious years of segregated baseball, getting whomped like a dusty rug by a collection of over forty men’s-slow-pitch-softball players. Except it is Team USA verses Team Iran for the Hormuz Cup, and it is not close. The home-team scores again and again in a bloodbath, and the away team invokes the mercy rule and agrees to pack it in and pay $300 billion in reparations just to get the fuck out, just to avoid one more punch in the mouth.

But the war can’t end - it is a chain of hiccups, a back spasm, a painful, life threatening erection after an overdose of Viagra. The 28th Amendment mandates the “Ongoing War Clause,” the penetration with no withdrawal rule, the law of Trumpian Stupidity Forever. We have a promise of peace, followed by acts of war. The peace proposals are such a tease, foreplay for the main event. You know that you’ve paid bigtime for the 4th of July tax-payer climax. There will be bunker buster bombs (your bombs and my bombs), rubble to the horizon, and, here and there a bit of blood oozes from beneath cement blocks. Invisible people trapped under mountains of concrete have become America’s finest export. Those 165, or is it 185, or a mere 125.....those Iranian school girls, nameless, faceless, triple tapped by their own protectors according to Trump.

Our bombs are made in America with union labor. Your panties might be from Bangladesh, your Nike’s from Vietnam, your cell phone from China, your car from Japan, but we can’t depend on any of these dark-skinned people to make a trustworthy cluster explosive. Don’t let anyone tell you that the USA doesn’t make stuff anymore. Your Motorola Androgynous surveillance device, capable of tracking undocumented, radical Islamic farm laborers from Bumfuck to Tel Aviv, shows you that American innovation rules the globe. If you need to find someone and subsequently blow them and their family to bits, the USA is your country.

There may be salvation in America - we merely need an old fashioned time machine that Dr. Frankenstein can use to go back to the good ole’ days, the days before the primordial soup got jump started by Satan’s lightning bolt and made Trump out of raw sewage. The mad doctor can take us back to “Leave It to Beaver” days. In the old days, before “Beaver” referenced the longing for the new creation of Theodore Cleaver’s “gender affirming care,” before we worried about Beaver running all over WNBA courts and injuring Caitlin Clark with his enormous, hairy, testosterone infused arms, back when the only man invading women’s locker rooms was a future presidential nightmare, we had “The American Dream.”

Those were the days we so need to get back to - the era of the American Dream, when Wally, Beaver, Ward and June ate Betty Crocker layer cakes seven days a week and lived for eternity. There was Eddie Haskell, but no Black people, no immigrants, no nothing. If June Cleaver ever saw Dave Chappell she would have keeled over from fright, but don’t worry, June’s days were perfect - no hotels full of drug dealing, dog and cat devouring Haitian gangsters feasting on Uncle Sam’s dime, no mosques, nothing but guys with Santa Claus beards and bibles in red caps. The best of them wore white sheets on weekends, and the others looked the other way.

In the old days we had border walls to the sky and indigenous Scandinavian Christians who had never even heard of Mexico. These people rode about on Schwinn Bicycles, watched the Yankees win every World Series and sprayed Bactine on their children’s cuts, scrapes and bug bites. Bactine combined the antiseptic - Benzalkonium Chloride - with the pain erasing properties of Lidocaine. Thus, children grew up germ free and numb. And Trump wanted to spray inside, huffing Bactine for your very life, a glue sniffing addict with a nose twitching like a bloodhound’s.