Harvey

Falling through the universe at the speed of life

By David Glenn Cox

If we start from the premise that more testing means more cases. And then subvert the collection of information regarding the number of cases. Well, then problem solved! Kiss me I’m Donald Trump. The dogs of madness howl as lunacy runs the halls. Not since my last a four-way hit have I felt reality this stressed and distorted living in perpetual fear of what comes next. The other evening out of the blue there was a large rumble off in the distance. My first thought, “Oh god, the oil refinery blew up!” This is 2020, right? Trained by Pavloff it must be some sort of disaster.

But with the realization of this slow-motion train wreck. Choo, Choo Donny is headed for dead man’s curve. All but the few don’t wear their masks now. The mask less stand out as either fools or rednecks.  The few the proud and the ignorant “My daddy dint wear no mask!” The authority of mask wearing comes not from government but from a higher power lodged in our souls. The survival instinct, that little bell that goes off when you’re about to swing out over the canyon on that dry rotted piece of rope. That little voice, “I’d love to kiss you darling, but I don’t want your cold.” We fear illness and death as much as we desire love and affection.

We see dead man’s curve straight up ahead and we see Trumpy the Terrible laughing and throwing coal on the fire. Send your kids to school Ha, ha, ha! Don’t listen to Fauci Ha, ha, ha, drink more beach ha, ha, ha!” We see the rising numbers colliding with the orange idiot and we fear. We fear what comes next. We put on the mask because we understand, you’re pretty much on your own here Bubba. The economy trashed like the house after a keg party and no one knows where to begin the world is different now. Who wants to go to Disney Land to be scanned by a mouse in a clean suit?  To spend hundreds of dollars to be just as uncomfortable as I am at home. The inescapable anxiety of the anxiety of the inescapable that feeling of being followed and hounded.

That all that is normal, and routine has been obliterated, schools closed, careers destroyed and the rents due. Living with the knowledge that Punchy the orange clown is in charge fear is a logical reaction. Because with most leaders they choose only between right and wrong. But with Trumpy there is a third option…crazy. Peddling a malaria drug that doesn’t work or igniting a trade war that defeats his own claim of a great economy. You know that they are quite capable of sticking their finger into a light socket and capable of doing it again, just to see if it was the same as the first time.  

Locked up locked down and locked away we are the prisoners of the virus and the prisoners of Trump the Terrible. The petulant Obergruppen Moron Fuhrer shouts, “Dance Peasant’s make it like it used to be.” The President of the United States is mentally incapacitated and no longer able to function. The little bird no longer comes out of the clock at the top of the hour and keeps time poorly. The longer the Cheeto remains in office the more the situation will disintegrate. If trying to muzzle the numbers during a pandemic isn’t a violation of his oath of office, what is a violation?

Yesterday in a news conference that can only be described generously as rambling. Trump the Terrible was there to condemn the Chinese in Hong Kong instead took out after Hunter Biden and aired his petty grievances. (Squirrel!) He went on for almost an hour on the same spot where John Kennedy decorated Alan Shepard for being the first American in space. The same spot as Reagan and Gorbachev the Pope and Lech Walesa. An instrument of American power used as a substitute for empty campaign rallies. Somebody needs some sugar somebody needs a fix. Someone is off their rocker, and someone needs to go home.

The Cheeto is out of step living in a dream world where he can wish away the pandemic with magic thinking. Mad as a hatter, “Come on, send your kids to school, just play along.”  Because if we all send our kids to school, everything will be alright again, and the world can move forward into broad sunlit uplands. The President attacks anyone who challenges his delusion just as Jimmy Stewart defended Harvey because…Class? “He’s out of his mind.” The porch light is on, but you don’t want to meet who lives there now. The rubber band has snapped the lone ranger is smoking crack and the little burro won’t pull the wagon uphill anymore.

The Cheeto brags that he passed a cognitive mental test forgetting that there is only one reason why a person is asked to take a cognitive mental test. “They tested me to see if I was a moron and I get the test results back tomorrow!” The possibility of a breakdown is real. History shows that when the going gets tough Trumpy runs away. He assigns blame and then wishes it into the cornfield. He’s been running all his life from his failures using each new venture to bury the last. But he can’t run anymore he’s caught like the rest of us.

He cannot Reality Star his way out of this. You can’t make a claw hammer out of bullshit. I’m no doctor but you don’t have to be to diagnose a gunshot wound. I’m no psychiatrist, but I know mentally “not right” when I see it.  If he were grandpa, I’d say give him the remote and make him comfortable. But there is a serious danger here that he might break something we’ll need later like the Center for Disease Control. A fantasy President who sets policy by listening to the voices in his head is not a legitimate President. If Trumpy can’t drive a news conference for an hour, how bad are the other twenty-three? When will he introduce us to his new Presidential advisor Harvey?

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