By David Glenn Cox
The folks at Starbucks have announced they will be closing 400 locations this year. These will primarily be the dine in café locations. It’s easy to understand, and these are smart folks. Selling fifty cents worth of ingredients for six dollars with a complimentary cup of hot water is brilliant. P.T. Barnum would be pleased. No one would pay six dollars for a cup of coffee but a Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino – Blended Beverage? These are smart folks who can read the tea leaves no pun intended. The business model has changed, and they are changing with it. Close marginal units, after all, you have nine million locations and prepare to weather the storm. If you can’t find a Starbucks, you’re not lost, you’re dead!
This week Wall Street performed the stage play, “The Man Who Fell to Earth” swinging wildly dropping sixteen hundred points followed by a five-hundred-point gain. Fear of the unknown, I think I can, I think I can, I think I can. An elephant frightened by a mouse of corrected unemployment numbers. A Triangle Shirt Factory the only game in town. And who is this would be celestial traveler creating all of this excitement and unease? Do you want to guess? I know he’s crazy, and you know he’s crazy. Wall Street knows he’s crazy too. They hate it, but you never know he might start throwing money out the window.
On the other hand, you can’t allow a malignant narcissist to play with matches around the economy. His behavior and his pronouncements have now reached critical mass. What might he do next? It was all fun and games as long as it was just working people getting hurt. But now the iceberg has struck the Titanic and the orange one is in charge of the rescue party. If that doesn’t give you pause, I don’t know what would. He’s scaring Wall Street and driving home the point that it isn’t Donald Trump’s influencing of the problems as much as Donald Trump being the problem and spreading his influence because of it.
The administration is rudderless as insiders say that none dare tell the truth when he asks where that foul odor is coming from. They have to pay rent too and no sense getting fired over that when, “Gee, I don’t know” works just fine. Wall Street sees that as well. They see Pink curled up in the bathroom stall hiding behind the toilet scribbling in his notebook. Jabba the Hut tweeting wildly about enemies real and imagined as fear strikes out and climbs the orange backstop. I know he’s a fraud and you know he’s a fraud and he’s starting to understand that the country is on to him. The con man ready to pack his bags and go out the hotel room window before the mob arrives.
Casually the Cheeto says with an air of indifference that if he loses the election, “he’ll do other things.” My first thought was time. Do time, maybe on the Island of Elba or maybe Alcatraz. A real coup for the tourist Industry, the Orange Prison. In all eventualities he’ll pull a Richard Nixon and enter a hospital for the criminally affluent. But Nixon was able to keep a lid on his mental health issues but if I were a juror and Trump pled not guilty by reason of insanity I would be stuck. You couldn’t let him go, but you’d know he wasn’t faking it. The tin ear deafness having of Stephen Miller drafting his speech on race relations or putting himself above Abe Lincoln. Belleview open the gates we got one for you.
The Trump effect has permeated the economy, the genuine concern that he’s going to do something stupid. Who wants to invest when no one knows what he might do next week. Covid 19 numbers rising sharply in states that opened too soon are but a fore taste of the Cheetos desire to make the American economy the best in the world. Like pinning medals on the Hitler Youth, be a good boy and go out and die now. Your country and your economy need you!
The orange one also said that if he lost the election, he would leave the White House without a fuss. Failure is nothing new to Donald Trump, but this is his first admission of it. I’ll just get my things and be going now. The Republican Convention is now being billed as the farewell party with drinks and a sheet cake monogrammed with green icing, “Best of Luck! Get Well Soon!” With conversations that begin with, “And what did your lawyer say?” The ship of state floats with cruelty as it’s only weapons. It is a thug regime and a thug thinks always as a thug. You know that and I know that but now the big-money boys know it too.
Like a rolled-up toothpaste tube they know the end of its usefulness is coming very soon. The orange man has fallen to earth with a thud. He can’t understand why his tricks aren’t working anymore, why he can’t get his curve ball to break. To the elite he is becoming more of a liability than a potential asset. Hocus Pocus…the spell is broken. Who knows what the tipping point might have been that weighed on the scales? The convention maybe? The Presidents desire to have a Jim Jones style Death Party in Charlotte so the orange one could masturbate in front of the crowd. When he asks the Republican leadership to come to the convention and drink the Kool aid exposing themselves unmasked to the crowd the worm turns.
The U-45 is aground on the rocks of its own incompetence and its tenders are sailing away. Leaving it to rust becoming a Confederate monument to idiocy to be torn down by a better way but in the meantime the orange Captain Crunch rules as the world burns.