This Carbon Based Life

By David Glenn Cox

After Mr. Trump’s Christmas message/thoughts and prayers session yesterday. He went radio silent for over fifteen hours. For most, that would mean nothing. But for Mr. Trump, it is a bit worrisome. Like grandpa snoring in the Lazy boy chair, who suddenly stops snoring. You assume that he’s alright, but still, there is reason for some concern. Is he bedridden, is he in an oxygen tent? Did Malaria smile?

Eisenhower once had a heart attack and they told the public he was having a dental procedure. I don’t trust this regime for obvious reasons. For obvious good reasons. There is no telling what is going on or even what could possibly be going on behind the scenes. On a good day, Mr. Trump isn’t all there. He’s like a box of Tinker toys, loose scattered pieces on the floor fitted together to make something resembling sane.

His paint scheme has gone from tan to orange, to copper bottom stew pot. His visit to the Army-Navy football game was marked by his standing for the seventh inning stretch and singing “take me out to the ballgame.” It begs the question, who is minding the snore? Who is really in charge here? I refer again to “Inside the Third Reich.” Hitler, it was said, loved petty gossip. The circle around him soon learned the best way to get rid of someone was to start a rumor about them. Once the rumor had reached the Fuhrer’s ears, that person was gone. Hitler became easier to play than an AM radio.

The king has no eyes outside the palace and must trust the word of his advisors. And with Trump’s clique of advisors, you can see the obvious problem.

From the New York Times; “When you look at what has happened to football in the United States, which is soccer in the United States, we seem to never call it (football) because we have a little bit of a conflict with another thing that’s called football,” Trump said Friday during the Fifi world cup draw “But when you think about it, shouldn’t it really be called … this is football, there’s no question about it. We have to come up with another name for the NFL. It really doesn’t make sense when you think about it.”

I don’t know. How about we call it the NFL? You know, a dinner plate is sometimes called china, while a large country in Asia is also called China. Something’s got to give! “Take me out to the ballgame. Take me out with the crowd.” With such layered and nuanced thinking as that, it is likely we are all doomed. Hey! You drive on a parkway and park on a driveway! Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack!

Mr. Trump has advised; ”You can give up certain products. You could give up pencils. Because under the China policy, (Asian country, not dinner plate) every child can get 37 pencils. They only need 1 or 2. They don’t need that many. You always need steel. (I dare you to argue with that logic.) :You don’t need 37 dolls for your daughter. 2 or 3 is nice.” Is that clear to everyone? Any questions?

Our cheap executive was trying to express that our economy is going along so well. That maybe your child doesn’t need all 37 pencils under the Christmas tree. Maybe save some pencils for the rest of us. You greedy pencil hoarding bastards! Your daughter doesn’t need 37 dolls. Maybe only 36 dolls and a microscope. Somewhere inside that jumble of vowels and consonants was a message of financial restraint. Because merchants hate it when you spend too much money at Christmas.

Aleksander Solzhenitsyn advised that whenever the party (Communist, not dinner) began a temperance drive in the Soviet Union, It meant the potato crop had failed and there was a shortage of vodka available. See? Your daughter doesn’t really need 37 dolls. With such logic as that, it is obvious why sometimes it’s hard to sleep at night. Mr. Trump was hinting through the glass darkly. The economy was in the pits and financial restraint was okay.

Mr. Trump complains that the photographs of himself with Jeffrey Epstein were just Democrats trying to make him look bad. Is that you in the photo, Mr. Trump? Is that Jeffrey Epstein? Who is trying to make you look bad? Trump advisor Howard Lutnick was invited to Jeffrey’s house in New York once. He took one look at the going’s on, spun on his heels and left. It took Mr. Trump a little longer to figure it out. Fifteen years longer. Laura Ingram explains, there are pedophiles and then again there are pedophiles. Mr. Trump isn’t one of those sick bastard pedophiles, he’s a pedophile light. He doesn’t like little girls; he likes big girls in middle school, just half a decade shy of voting age.

My love of science fiction torments me with the possibilities. A new Trump might appear someday, only an inch or two taller or shorter, or being more coherent. Or an automation. What’s wrong with his voice? Mr. Trump being more wooden and more mechanical. A clone or a body double. Remember, if he starts making sense. The fix is in.

But actually, Mr. Trump reminds me of a boxer in the late rounds of a losing effort. His hands are down and his legs are tired. Just taking punch after punch, just trying to hang on. With his corner working on him between rounds, trying to patch him up to make it through just one more round. Because they know that when he is done, so are they.

“We have a very big signing today having to do with Alaska, a place that I am very familiar with. And we’re making it greater and bigger and more powerful and job-producing.”

“We have just about every nation working on this deal and trying to get it done. Something that you could say 3,000 years, if you look at it in certain ways, or you could say centuries. But this is a deal that incredibly everyone just came together.”

Buy me some peanuts and crackerjack. I don’t care if I ever get back!

 “This is not a book that should be set aside lightly – it should be flung with great force.”
― Groucho Marx