“… doomed to let every worry, spite, irritation, and obsession scratch and claw.”*
Would it be better to be shrink-wrapped, immune, ears plugged and mouths gagged? There is no avoiding the horror. The giant gaps in credibility, the rush to the bottom so wickedly speedy that we don’t know whether to scream with eyes open or moan with eyes covered, either way bracing for impact. Waiting for truth and decency to take over. Waiting to kick the world’s trashiest family out of our house.
Sleep dips and pauses for no real reason and for all reasons, insomnia so common these days as to be cliche. HELP says one to the other. RESIST shouts one young person, standing tall, until she is felled by a baton, squirted with pepper spray. It doesn’t matter how peaceful she was, how far away curfew’s start was, they wanted to take her down, to leave her bruised and with an arrest record. Good god — can we at least defund that?
We all have our fantasies, some chimerical, others ghoulish. Could they ever come to pass? A pasty-faced former president being perp-walked out of the White House is my favorite. No time to apply his pumpkin oils and powders. He stumbles. Maybe he falls.
The wish for sanity. The deep longing for science. The impatience for the lunatics to go back underground or at least, to cluster in dumb pods along the margins.
There’s nothing to go back to, because before was racist, corrupt and largely diseased by one Southerner refusing to do his job. Who called the Senate the most expensive lunch club in the country? I long for the day when we get to call those who defy the Constitution and who spit in the faces of their constituents what they really are. Not obstructionists (though they are that too). Certainly not patriots (what an inside-out job that propaganda is!). No. Those who corrupt everything they touch and warp rules or abandon them wholesale all in service of whoring for power are simply TRAITORS.
And now it’s a lunch club ravaged by stupidity — anti-science stupidity, selfish stupidity, stupidity wrapped up in an American flag. The virus spreading like the contagious virus it is and has been all along. A crisis wholly of their own making at this point.
“Are you fucking filming me again?” screeches Kellyanne to her tiktok’ing fifteen year old daughter — perhaps the only genuine speech we’ve heard from that particular propagandist, or is this, too, somehow staged? “Claudia’s gone ganster,” tweets an observer. “We have to protect her.” Why did they wait two days after her mother tested positive to test the girl?
Who refuses to do contact tracing, or worse even, refuses help from the CDC to do contract tracing? Monsters, that’s who. The GOP as a death cult more credible than ever.
In less than one month: the election. Already people are voting. Two hour lines in South Carolina on the first day, something never seen before. Requests for mail-in ballots in Florida show Democrats outpacing Republicans to a significant degree and to a landslide degree if all independents are going Blue. Search and bookmark the good news, for sanity’s sake.
“Covita” one clever observer called the disgusting balcony moment — a dictator’s dream, showing off his mighty conquest of disease, except it didn’t work, #GaspingforAir trending within the hour. He took his mask off this time for all the usual flagrantly stupid reasons, but also because clearly he couldn’t breathe. The man was struggling to breathe.
Walter Reed’s reputation in tatters goes to show another new and terrible cliche — you know the one — everything trump touches turns to shit. The dissembling medical press conference. White coats worn like costumes. HIPAA rules selectively applied. And what about how the misspeak required a correction and the correction required a walk back even though all statements were read off a piece of paper?
And then there’s the very real possibility that our reality star president chose the so-called doctor (an osteopath, by the way) for his good looks and his name — Dr. Sean Conley reminding Dipshit in Chief of that ultrasuave 007, Sean Connery. Don’t laugh. The man is that superficial, that lacking in substance.
Meanwhile, experts read the cocktail of medications for what they are — meds for someone suffering from Covid-pneumonia. How stupid do they think we are? Did they install a ventilator and hire a crew of respiratory therapists and a pulmonologist during trump’s absence? Because that man is NOT WELL.
Meanwhile a cowboy-hatted man named Abbott removes ballot drop boxes like a cartoon villain, leaving one county the size of Rhode Island with only one. One drop box. If it weren’t for Covid, cotillions of blue state activists would be flying in and driving ballots to the single box in rented cars, but Covid keeps us home, keeps us abiding by measures designed to keep us alive. Alive. Alive. (Enter: LeBron James!)
Dear Lord, don’t let this loathsome toad’s death create as much chaos as his life has! Let him live, say, til November 11 (how ironic) — when the results, a landslide, will be readily visible in the rear view mirror. Then okay. Let him stop breathing. His death then would spare us the worry about who he and Jared were selling state secrets to. Does he think we’ve forgotten his $420 million debt? We’d be spared. We’d be spared. Imagine being spared instead of relentlessly jabbed by the poison-tipped spear that is this administration. Imagine. Imagine. Imagine.
*From the Diary of Virginia Woolf