By David Glenn Cox
Tyranny generally fails because of its insular nature. Orders come from on high and on your reaction to them hangs your existence. Joe Stalin said, “You are loyal comrade, but are you loyal enough?” Honest straight from the heart answers are ill advised look around the room before you speak. The French Revolution became like “Pulp Fiction,” “say Citizen again Brad!” The paranoia of being seen as not loyal enough. You walk into a staff meeting in a war with Great Britain and der Fuhrer says, “We’re going to invade Russia, what do you think?”
I call it the Elvis principle. Elvis was the king of Rock and Roll, and the group that surrounded him were known as the Memphis Mafia. Their job was to keep the King happy. That sweet job and all they had to do was laugh at his jokes and run to the pharmacy for him. The King became isolated no one would tell him the truth and he became the boy in the bubble. “Sure thing boss, I’ll get your pills.” The inability to get an honest opinion, “No, I really liked it, that was great.”
Anyone who tries to tell the truth will be an outlier, “What-da-ya mean fat? He’s not fat!” A minority opinion of one an unemployed minority opinion of one. Which brings us to the Cheeto. The campaign senses that it is in trouble after the Cheeto metaphorically drooled his way through a Sean Hannity interview. Hannity was trying to pull him across the finish line, but it was no good. Trump babbling to the point where you were waiting for the Cheeto to ask, “Are you my Mommy?” Asked about plans for a second term and the orange one took on a deer in the headlights look.
A vacancy at the White House Arms becomes apparent. We already know why the revolving door spins. You can’t tell Elvis he’s fat. Hold a rally indoors during a pandemic, that’s a great idea! In boxing the maxim says when the champ becomes his own trainer the champs gonna lose. For the Biden campaign the pandemic has been the greatest thing since amphetamines. Trump can’t hit what ain’t there. He can call him sleepy Joe and Biden answers, “What else you got?” The Biden strategy is clear, just let the Cheeto be the Cheeto, making one bad movie after another singing with the Jordanaires.
The Cheeto’s down in the mouth appearances saying Biden will be your President because nobody loves me, I’m going to eat a worm. The Wagnerian hero on the mountain top cries, “Why oh Wootan! Why me!” And the chorus of Nibelungs answer, “We don’t think you’re fat.” But the sun is setting the favor of the gods has passed and it is no fun anymore. The Cheeto couldn’t recite his plans for a second term because there aren’t any. He’s Archie Bell and the Drells he’s a one-man band and hasn’t got to that part yet. We’re still waiting on his replacement for Obamacare he was going to have ready on day one.
Since Donald Trump has cleared the room of adults and honest voices, he’s taken on the persona of the resident expert on all subjects. Arguing with medical experts, recommending hair brained cures maybe bleach? His comments or lack of comments on George Floyd and Black Lives Matter. The Great Wall of the White House and his stroll through Lafayette Park all unmitigated disasters. All of this before tits up in Tulsa. It would seem the orange oracle is out of ideas. He is throwing the same shit, but nothing sticks to the wall anymore even the state of Mississippi is changing its flag.
The wheels are coming off meaning what will the Cheeto attempt next when cornered? When Viva Las Vegas doesn’t work anymore, what will he try next? The Lincoln project suggests the President’s health is failing at 74. Pointing to his scary ramp adventure and need of a Presidential sippy cup. But he’s fighting a defensive war his narcissism makes him think we care about the ramp because we care about him. “You must have been so frightened sir. That must have been terrible for you.”
The campaign is down but not out. Internally the campaign has decided this is all Brad Pascale’s fault. He was the one who bragged about ticket reservations in Tulsa. But Brad had nothing to do with the Bible thumping or calling out the army those were fat Elvis ideas. But sooner or sooner still, Brad will be sacrificed on the alter of this has to be someone’s fault and the Cheeto’s just big boned. The Cheeto is polling underwater trailing in red state bell weathers, boy Brad has certainly screwed this up.
The Washington Post broke the story the Russians were paying Taliban fighters bounties to kill American soldiers. The White House responds, we never briefed the President on that. And by God I believe them! I do not doubt for one minute that they would avoid telling the orange one anything unpleasant that might upset him. “Yes sir, very good sir! Viva Las Vegas to you too sir. If you could step off the desk now, I need you to sign these papers sir.”
The three-ring circus enters its final act as the fountains of Bellagio run dry. The hero has failed in his heroic quest, and it’s all Brad’s fault. The house lights dim, there’s time for one more number as a sad Pagliacci sings the tears of a clown. Oh, how the world would be different if only Brad hadn’t screwed this up.
“Yes sir, all Brad’s fault.”