Norma Desmond or Mutant Mussolini?

Falling through the universe at the speed of life

By David Glenn Cox

Years ago, I attended a local stock car track on weekends. Before the preliminaries they had a feature called, “Run what you brung.” Your car one lap, one on one and side bets are confidential. One night this young woman brought her new Z-28 Camaro and decided to race. Her luck drew her one of the fastest cars in town, the champ was nearly a legend. He quickly dispatched her, but she challenged him again and the second time he made her look worse. So, then the boyfriend gets involved with a verbal confrontation and alcohol abuse and challenges the champ, double or nothing.

They dropped the flag, and the Z-28 went flying through the gears staying neck and neck with the champ. Able to drop down and get the inside lane in the turn he poured the coals to it entering the back straightaway earning a slight lead. Adrenaline pumping, he floured the gas pedal but straightaways like all good things must come to an end. Entering the number three turn he lost it riding the guardrail around the turn coming to rest all alone steam rising from under his hood in the apex of number four. Then the announcer said, “Well, I guess there are worse things than losing!” It was not only hysterically funny but amazingly profound. What is temporary embarrassment compared to owning a new car with fifty-seven payments due on it wrecked at the stock car track?

Orange Trumpy vacillates, one day he’s going to flee the White House for Confederate Headquarters in Mira Lago and the next he’s going to bar the doors and make them drag him from the White House. A leader who cannot make a decision, but this is Trumpy’s form of doublespeak more of symptom than of strategy. He says yes and then says no. Sowing confusion and sowing doubt. Trumpy needs to stay in contact with his social secretary, he already has an appointment on January 20th. They are holding a party at Mira Lago that day to celebrate the commencement of Trumpy’s second term. Que Twilight Zone Theme.

Orange Trumpy is headed down the back straightaway with a head full of non-sense destined for the number three turn. There’s the tax problem in New York and the sexual allegations. Wives generally don’t like it when their husband are under sexual allegations, so there’s that. Four hundred million to half a billion in loans coming due and Twitter has warned, advised, threatened, promised to cut Trumpy off after January 20th for any undo behavior. If Trumpy has a Twitter account on January twenty-first, I’ll be real surprised.

Perhaps orange Trumpy could start his own messaging service and call it “Quitter.” A massive Russian hack of indeterminate size and duration. Because they were too stupid to know that they were too stupid to know. The President deposed was briefed on the issue but has said nothing publicly other than complaining about shower heads. He has also not mentioned the 310,000 dead Americans from the botched Covid-19 Pandemic. Remember when Trumpy liked to call everyone a loser? Since November 3rd the “L” word hasn’t crossed orange Trumpy’s lips. I wonder what a psychiatrist would say about that.

 “Tell me magic eight ball; did Trumpy win the election?” Ask again later, Secretary of State, and self-dealing Mike Pompeo invited nine hundred guests to his taxpayer funded Christmas Party. Of the nine hundred invited less than four dozen showed. Meaning over 850 rubber chicken and overcooked steak dinners went to waste. “You want more chicken? There is plenty!” It’s gotta hurt to invite nine hundred and .5% show up but does that answer your question? “You want to take some of this home with you? We’re gonna have to throw it out.”

You mean they were all just using me like a fat kid with a minibike? They aren’t really my friends? Elvis has a revelation. “Tell me magic eight ball; Did Trumpy win the election?” Don’t be stupid. There’s no reason to risk their lives attending a Christmas party with an inflatable lawn decoration whose future was yesterday and whose fortunes are checkered. The Washington mob has moved on and whether Trumpy accepts the election outcome or not, they have.

Mike Pence a man with a brilliant future behind him has the thankless, nay dangerous task of certifying the election. Trumpy takes it personally when you go throwing reality at him. Pence walks a fine line implying but not saying the election isn’t over. He plans to flee the country for that all important fact-finding mission to the Middle East. “Are they really that rich? Do you think they would want to back a long shot Presidential candidate?”

Since November 3rd orange Jason keeps getting back up. “I’m going to talk about shower heads and the stock market. It’ll be just like before in the good old days. They all love me you know. The little people all love me. I’m the President!” Meanwhile, the brain cells in the other hemisphere conspire to attack with the Army of Northern Virginia. Orange Jason still insists he won the election. Now you’re scaring me, it’s time to consider putting away the sharp objects.

By his insistence he demands a loyalty test from the Republicans running in Georgia. “Stand and deliver! Be ye sane or be ye crazy! Vote for me! I’m on the ballot now!” In a state that Trump just…lost. You can help us best by sitting quietly in the corner. Pick a number between one and ten. Which Trumpy did you get today? Orange Napoleon ready to march on Toulon or Kevin home alone. Norma Desmond or mutant Mussolini?

“Well, I guess there are worse things than losing!”

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