This Carbon Based Life

By David Glenn Cox

It’s clear to me the audience would prefer I prophesied about something else for a while. But give me a break here, what’s the second story, “Blizzard in the Midwest?” Well, sometimes, when spring approaches and the warm air creeps north, they get bad weather sometimes. It’s pretty thin, gruel and hard to bring to life. Write about the weather or the biggest, most catastrophic fuck-up in American presidential history? How can I ignore that? But I understand; it’s all the media is talking about right now.

But it’s the very magnitude of the story making it too fantastic to leave alone. The Doonesbury comic strip once drew the Nixon White House as building a stone wall. The Trump version would have Patriot missile batteries included on the front lawn. Trump spoke to his favorite reporters in the oval playroom and gold-leaf emporium. He seems disconnected in a concerning way. Somehow, he’s different. Donald will tell us if we would but listen. If Donald Trump says there is no shortage of ammunition. It means there’s a shortage of ammunition.

He telegraphs everything. As the Epstein files first hit the press, Mr. Trump says, “I’m exonerated!” Even before being asked. But the other day, while sitting in his big chair in the big room, I couldn’t help but notice how Trump looked rather small. Was the big chair just too big, making him look really small. Is he shrinking like your grandmother or just slouching? But he reminded me of Roosevelt. Roosevelt slouching in his chair. A dying, sick, old man from 1945? It was an unintended video image release. And his sudden outbursts of filigree. Saying, “I’m a wartime President!” the same way a ten-year-old says, “Grandpa’s gonna take me to the park and get us some ice cream!” Different! Somehow on a different plane. Not as concerned by things as he ought to be.

Never, ever, has an American president begged for help and been told “no!” on such terms. It’s historic like a Wagner opera or a Shakespeare play. I’d even laugh if I wasn’t living in the fallout zone myself. But Mayor McCheese seems rather animated lately. It’s understandable; they ‘ve really screwed the pooch this time. The President of the United States is in a real pickle. But somehow, he doesn’t seem too bothered by it. Like, maybe he should be?

Mr. Trump takes to Twuth Social to rewrite War and Peace. With long screeds about judges and other enemies of the people out to get him. I wonder if we’ll ever find out who his ghostwriter is? His thought organizer. His verbalizer. Don’t forget to make mistakes! How could I write about the weather? Hey, It’s Spring Training everyone! Pitchers and catchers are reporting! But we’re stuck in this time, but I fear that Mr. Trump is not. He is untethered. Looking frighteningly frail, when they all work so hard to hide that from us. Either they’re getting lazy or he’s getting worse.

He seems at times relaxed, like chemically enhanced relaxed and animated, and then at other times when he seems slow and lethargic. The tragic king was undone by his handlers. Give him the happy shot, we’ve got to tell him some bad news. It would explain the mood swings. At least it said so in my “Talking to your Teenagers About Dope” pamphlet. An addled old man taking the chemical taxi to never, never, land. Delivered like a sack of potatoes and expected to do three minutes for the camera. And then they edit that video down for the best two-minute clip.

Sixteen days ago, Mr. Trump appeared along with a percolated Pete Hegseth and Dan “Raising” Cain! But now, two weeks later, they are both gone. Two weeks ago, they were proud of themselves about this war. They must have gotten some really bad advice, or something. Telling them the Mullahs were an easy pushover, just ripe for plundering. Mr. Potato Head brags about hitting Kharg Island. Ninety percent of the oil leaving Kharg Island ends up in China. I’ll bet you a shiny new nickel they won’t attack Kharg Island again. Mr. Trump doesn’t seem to fully grasp the reality of the situation. He’s feeling good, feeling right, It’s Saturday night. Happy New Year! I’m a wartime president! Arrest those reporters. You can’t tell the truth about me and get away with it!

It’s like a crisis inside of a crisis. A disaster wrapped inside of a  calamity hidden by an earthquake. The drug-addled president carted from room to room like Jabba the hutt. Persuaded what to think by his handlers. Then convinced it was his idea! Only occasionally throwing a fit of pique and temper when his oatmeal is too hot. Blowing a gasket on Twuth Social. Ghostwritten by someone? The possibilities are endless. An old man barely aware of what’s going on. But aware of all the threats around him.

Sixteen days and the Republican “do nothing” Congress hasn’t even scheduled a hearing. “Go ahead and let him start a war. See if we care? Let me know how it all turns out.” It’s a blind abrogation of doing their job. At least pretend for the sake of the children that you give a shit about democracy. But to just turn their backs and say, “Whatever.” That’s a bigger story than a blizzard. Republican Zombie Sunset on Capitol Hill – The Final Hours.  

Aren’t you going to try to stop him? “What for? We’re going to get creamed in November, anyway.” The doom ship sails off into the dark night with a crew seeking obscurity, looking for its fate to find. A White House that doesn’t know what to do and a Congress unwilling to get involved. For a Republican Congress, it’s the kiss of death. An unpopular war for specious reasons heading into ominous midterm elections. On the count of three, everybody hide!

So, as you can see, I’m stuck with this story too. The greatest and most fearful story ever told. Paralysis. The king, in a drug-addled haze managed by handlers. A congress lacking the gumption to get involved with an exploding toxic regime. Accepting at this point that it’s too late for them to save the game now.

“Hello?

Is there anybody in there?

Just nod if you can hear me

Is there anyone home?

Come on now

I hear you′re feeling down

Well, I can ease your pain

And get you on your feet again

Relax

I’ll need some information first

Just the basic facts

Can you show me where it hurts?

There is no pain, you are receding

A distant ship, smoke on the horizon

You are only coming through in waves

Your lips move, but I can′t hear what you’re saying

When I was a child, I had a fever

My hands felt just like two balloons

Now I’ve got that feeling once again

I can′t explain, you would not understand

This is not how I am.” – Roger Waters

Has he become uncomfortably numb? With congress become deaf and dumb?