This Carbon Based Life

By David Glenn Cox

In every auto accident that I have ever witnessed, there is that moment. First, you hear the screech of the rubber on pavement. Then, that indeterminable moment between the thunder’s roar and the lightening strike. That moment or page in the Agatha Christie novel. Where the murder has just been revealed. And the guests all stand in stunned silence, waiting to see what happens next. We are in that moment, now.

The Republican National Committee has been picking up Twump’s legal bills to the tune of $1.6 million dollars. And makes clear that they have no intention of paying anyone else’s. Phony Electors: Take Note! This means you! “We fund the sheriff, but we will not fund no deputies.” Start dominoes falling – Here.

Now why in the name of good groceries would the RNC let that kind of information go public, anonymously. I don’t know, maybe to stop the phone from dancing off the desk all day? Call after call, from panicked phony electors facing a real retirement fund draining legal emergencies. The ice just broke, and they don’t know how cold the water is yet, but only that they are in it. If the RNC offered one dime to one phony elector, it could cause a run on the Republican bank. This is the Entrance’, the overture. Have a seat, grab yourself some popcorn, the curtain is just about to go up.

The Republican Party in absentia, find fund raising no harder than cashing checks at the bank. While Twump loyalists have been through the desert on a horse with no name. It seems there is a lot of apprehension on the part of the big donors that one of those cwazy Twump loyalists. Could do or say something stupid, that might hurt their business. We are to the point in the Zapruder film where the President hears a noise.

In Arizona, the Republican led legislature pushed through a bill to allow the legislature to reject or reconsider accepting national election results. The bill was killed from above, by the Republican leadership at the last minute. Thunder and lightening and cats on the counters, the Republicans got up a head of steam. They were going to boot Liz Cheney and Adam Kinsinger so far out of the Republican Party, you’d need NASA to help you find them. Zeus’s lightning bolt of death has now been reduced to a strongly worded letter in their personnel file.

They’ve opted for a letter of censure instead. “Just kidding guys.” Don’t want to go throwing folks out of the Party, they might need to ask for a ride home someday.

No one can tell you what will happen next; because we are in that moment. Maybe just a fender bender, maybe fatalities. Maybe nothing, but maybe a giant nuclear Watergate sucking sound. The orange stars implosion has left the entire Republican galaxy unstable and trembling.  He’s already admitted his guilt, so where does that leave them? It leaves them in the lurch. Fighting to clear the name of a man, who declares he’s guilty.

It’s a human nature thing, when one conspirator turns its back on another conspirator. “We’re sorry, but the number that you have reached is not in service at this time.” The phony electors are probably the minor wealthy, harmless dimwits talked into doing something they thought they could tell the grandkids about some day. “And that’s why Grandpa went to jail, and we live in this trailer park.” So, when the RNC locks the doors and draws the curtains closed. What do you suppose the phony electors will do next to try and save themselves? If you guessed, take singing lessons and start a choir; you are correct!

The RNC is circling the wagons and fears the worst. Nature abhors a vacuum, as the Twump universe is beginning to collapse in on itself. Stunned into silence, many of the top Republicans have gone to ground. Living in abandoned 1950s bomb shelters, until the all-clear is given, that it’s safe to come out.

Suddenly gone and washed away is all talk of a Republican majorities. The January 6^th committee is dropping bombs. The conspiracy has been exposed and the conspirators will be named directly. Laws have been broken and chips are going to fall where they may.  It is a federal crime to knowingly lie on a federal document.

You might get six months in the Federal stockade in Montgomery, for a crime like that. Not a long time really, but long enough to fuck up a career. “Yes, I was Executive Vice-President for the Brand-X Investment Bank, before I was sent up for six months in the federal slammer for conspiracy. And as a part of my work release. I think I could be the best bus boy this Chili’s restaurant has ever seen.”

Faux News facing billions of dollars in lawsuits. But it’s not the money, it’s the perception of loss. The effect on the future stock price. Belling the cat, less they ever try to do something like it again. But like Stalingrad, the losses can’t be made up. The phony electors will begin to sing, “Nearer My God to The.” And the orange front will begin to irrevocably to roll back.

A line is being drawn in the sand and two lines form. Those with lawyers and those with confessions. If a political party implodes in the forest, does it make a sound? And those with confessions will confess on those with lawyers.

The free radical (Twump) will continue to say whatever strikes his fancy, despite the legal peril it creates to himself and others. (Meetings are being held!) “That damn fool is going to get us all convicted, we need to shut him up!” Only now are they beginning to realize that the monster has broken loose from his chains and is running amok in the countryside. Twump is rapidly becoming a larger threat to Republicans than to the Democrats.

The orange apocalypse has abandoned the field. He’s left his army in Egypt, to find their own way home to France. The Republican Party that has used those poor, rich phony elector dupes, now abandons them to their fate. Like a box of kittens dumped on the side of an empty country road. “Who? Sorry, nobody here by that name. No, a speak a, the English!”

In every auto accident that I have ever witnessed, there is that moment. First, you hear the screech of the rubber on the pavement. Then, that indeterminable moment between the thunder’s crash and the lightning strike. The moment or page in the Agatha Christie novel. Where the murderer has just been revealed. And the guests all stand in stunned silence, waiting to see what happens next. We are in that moment, now.