By David Glenn Cox
It has been a really great campaign, one which will surely be memorable for all of us. But there was something to take note of, which went hardly noticed. After all of the hoopla about those last two canceled, uncanceled Trump rallies in Kansas and Iowa. Suddenly, a new event appears at the deflecting pool of all places. With the Washington Monument in the background, flags flying, seven maids a milking, you know the routine by now.
A swarm of maybe fifty warmly greeted the President. Because mostly they all worked for the Resident, and they take down the names of those who don’t applaud loudly enough. But the Resident looked pooped. Not sleepy, tired, but weary tired. But whose ad hoc idea was this event where only the staff showed up? Did someone forget to call the media? “The President will speak at the deflecting pool on Monday afternoon.” About What? “We’re all excited to find out!”
He can’t help being eighty years old. He’s tired and running on fumes. So when I say low energy, it is in the context of SLOW as in eighty year-old- man slow. Then slow and then low energy. To say that Mr. Trump rambled in his speech is to imply he ever had a destination in mind in the first place. He mumbled through most of it, half-heartedly waving blow-up photos of the deflecting pool. All to prove his case!!! This is his big closing message to America and the American people. This, in his last campaign address. Not exactly Churchill’s “Iron Curtain” speech or Eisenhower’s “Military Industrial Complex,” but vandals in the deflecting pool, I suppose we’ll have to work with that to sharpen up that message just a bit.
Mr. Trump looked confused (more than usual confused) Ronald Reagan confused with that vacant look in the eye. Unsure what he’s doing, where he was or why he was doing it! Whose Idea was this? If it was the Mar a Lago mauler’s bright idea, why no enthusiasm? If it was his staff, why not cancel for lack of drawing a crowd? Something called bad optics. The Resident stood before a tiny crowd of sycophants in a great big open space. Making the event look more like a child’s birthday party. Better to leave without saying than to leave after saying that. (WTF was that?)
There was no point, and no message. Just Grandpa having a fit. A composite of all Mr. Trump’s grievance speeches. He mumbled and gargled and changed direction gruffly and left a few sentences unfinished. It was like a moment of pure insanity. This old man on the eve of the most important night of his remaining political life. And he chooses that night to talk about vandals in the deflecting pool. “James Comey tried to kill me!”
It was as if one faction inside the White House with gold trim had wanted to hold this event and another faction was trying to scuttle it. Well, if we can’t stop it, we can at least make sure that nobody attends “Send that press release right away. (wink, wink) And make sure that everyone gets a copy!” You can smell the dysfunction… of the end times. Glory long gone by with a future and legacy uncertain. A political and financial empire suddenly in disarray. And he sums it all up with vandals at the deflecting pool! Inspiring words to live by sir! I’ll keep that in mind always, sir.
It would be easy to understand why they would want to stop it from happening. You’ve said enough! You’re a loose cannon on a rolling deck. You’ve said enough! After the “Overweight” remark. She used to be overweight. You know, a real heifer. But she wised up and went to the doctor to do something about it. The deflecting pool speech is like the epilogue. What is left of the match after the fire has gone out? The Grandpa’s has finally lost his shit this time, speech. The speech he did even need to bother with. If you thought he was broken before…well? Maybe he just needs a little rest. A year or two of bed rest and strong medication. Primal scream therapy, and he’ll be fine. The speech was barely coherent. He was preaching to another audience somewhere far, far away. Back in the good ole days! Mr. Trump was giving it 100% but only about sixty or so percent of it was getting through.
Grandpa cracked a gear, and now he doesn’t tick so good.
The Resident’s part-time (by the hour) wife brokers a ceasefire. Just exactly splain to me how that happens? Mrs. Trump picks up the phone and says, “I vaunt broker peace.” Now, how exactly does Malaria Trump fit in there? SHHH! She says, she’s Malaria Trump on the phone and “She vaunt broker cease fire.” Okay, sure thing, since it’s you who asked, okay! You wouldn’t be doing this for publicity, would you now, Mrs. Trump? Do you know what would happen if your husband ever saw his wife’s name as a candidate for the Nobel-Pulitzer Peace Prize?
I warned that the campaign trail could break the old man, and now it appears it has. Old draft dodgers never die. They just complain away. He says he could have won the Vietnam War in five days. The same war he dodged. There is something just not quite right about that. It’s like a serial killer who keeps bringing up the subject of knives. [Attention] You don’t want to go there, but he went there.
He’s detached. In compos mentis. The Donald Trump you once knew like Elvis, has left the building. “But I’m telling you! It was the vandals!” It’s the “Twilight of the Clods!”
“When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes, I’ve believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.” ― Lewis Carroll
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