This Carbon Based Life

By David Glenn Cox

Some days when I get up in the morning and read the news, it’s like there’s a rainbow over my computer. And as I read the headlines, I start to smile, and cherubs are dancing in the margins. Laughter that hard and that early in the morning, can’t be any good for you. I felt as lucky as the guy who guessed how many marbles were missing from the big orange tub.

The Twump regime will be remembered as the only Presidential Administration ever to turn over torn pieces of documents to the National Archives. Some were taped back together, others, you figure it out. They held classes early on in the Administration, about document handling. While the shards come from late in the Administration. Twumpo, the wonder ape says, “Fuck it! If I tear it up, it’s gone!” The calculating Twump, always leaving you in a quandary.

Between orange buffoon, windbag dullard. Who like a Chatty Kathy doll only has so many phrases, two “D” cell batteries can power. Or is he calculating? Krusty the dullard President, laughingstock of the intellectual and close personal friend of the lunatic fringe. The more the intellectuals balk, the more the fringe rise to defend him. “He might be ugly and stupid, but he’s ours.” Like Chinese handcuffs, the more you push him away, the more you feed his crowd and they close up ranks.

Is it all performance art for the Bumsteads in Bayonne? The Flintstones in Bedrock or the good ole boys down in South, Alabama? “And now it’s time for another episode of America’s favorite victim! Drool along with Donald!” Is he? Can he really be as stupid and thuggish, as the reports make him out to be? Either they are really bad at covering it up. Or they are really good at covering it up! “No, don’t tell the press he has Covid. Tell them he had a paperclip stuck so far up his nose, that we had to call a doctor this time to get it out. They’ll believe that!”

But if politics were bowling, you would have seen the fault light come on. Cowboy Don put on his ten-gallon hat and went down to Texas and began to rope himself some Republican steers. So as Cowboy Don tells the crowd, he’s going to give away pardons and foment more riots and demonstrations. He’s looking back at those Washington cattle and saying, “You agree with me, don’t you boys?” But it was a bridge too far. Leaving most of the Republicans to ignore him or say, “Ummm?”

Come on guys, don’t we support sedition, yes or no? Will you rise up and have a bloody riot in the streets to defend me against a legal proceeding? I’ll get rid of Transgender athletes for you and bring back The Golden Girls and Matlock! He’s bargaining now, that is the third stage of grief, after denial and anger. If you’ll just return me to “that beautiful, beautiful house that happens to be white.”

“If these radical, vicious, racist prosecutors do anything wrong or illegal, I hope we are going to have in this country the biggest protest we have ever had in Washington DC, in New York, in Atlanta and elsewhere because our country and our elections are corrupt,”

“In reality, they’re not after me; they’re after you, and I just happen to be the person in the way,”

You believe that don’t you? The prosecutors are out to get you for tax evasion.

If you read the text of Twump’s remarks and ignore the verbose video from his Saturday night cotillion . It is a man on the defensive, hunted and haunted and very afraid. A man trying to bring along collaborators to bolster his position. You guys agree with me, right? We should have protests and demonstrations in the streets, if they try to prosecute me? Right? I ain’t afraid of no ghosts, but you guys stay close to me okay?

Then as the roller coaster car careens around the corner on two wheels. Twump leaves his publishers aghast. Spoiling the end of next Twump  book, “If I Did It” by spilling the beans and coming right out and admitting in chapter one, page one that he did it. It’s a novel legal approach, one rarely recommended or employed even by traffic court attorneys. But there it is again, is he that stupid or is he playing an angle?

Republican Governors and Susan Collins say, “Maybe someone else should run this time. There are so many fine candidates (Besides you!) .” It’s all beginning to slip away; can you hear me Major Tom? “Why if you try and prosecute me, they’ll be riots and blood in the streets! I’m still big, it’s the pictures that have got smaller. “Max, who took the doorknobs off of all the doors?”

Twump’s next step is depression in the Kübler-Ross model , and I don’t think that can’t be very far off. The orange apocalypse seems to be shooting his bolt and burning his papers in the courtyard in a less than rational manner. Next stop hospital!  Don’t believe a world he says! “I’m guilty! I’m guilty! I’m so fucking guilty, you wouldn’t believe how guilty I am! I did it! I did it all! Do you hear me? I did it all!”

“That’s right your honor; he used to have a conversation with General Eisenhower every afternoon around four. Unless Genral Patton showed up first, then they’d always argue.”

The stage is being set for the final showdown. Your honor my client is not legally competent to stand trial. He’s being treated under sedation at the San Simian Luxury Hospital, Resort and Spa, for the criminally wealthy. In the famous Richard Nixon suite, of the phlebitis wing. His statements are patently ludicrous and delusional and clearly come from the mind of a man unfit to stand trial!

Maybe we will never know how much of Twump is true huckster, and how much is TV star. How much is mental illness and how much is the conniving sociopath? But I know now that the end is very near, he’s bargaining, “please save me from the prosecutors. Rise up and break stuff or something!”

His admissions of guilt are like the Battle of the Bulge. Wasted effort for no gain, squandering resources that could be better used later. But they set the foundation of, the porch light is on, but no one is at home defense. Toys in the attic, truly gone fishing. Based on the famous case of Koo, Koo, versus Coco Puffs. “Are you, my Mommy?” Your honor, the defense rests.