“Joe Biden” is feeling blue. Not a joke. In the lurid sunset of his dwindling term-in-office, the long shadow of his legacy points toward a gigantic glowing cinder where North America used to be. Such are the grievances of the outgoing president. I pass unto you and your legions of white supremacist slobs the ashtray that was once our mighty nation. Fix that! But, as Sir Mick Jagger observed some time ago: you can’t always get what you want. “Joe Biden,” in despair, sinks deeper into his McTeer power recliner and slips back into the bitter dream of his nemesis, a beast named Chrump. . . .
It’s such a chewy name: Chrump, a fricative fiesta! The tongue briefly presses against the alveolar ridge before releasing, then curls back, and the jaw opens slightly to form this vowel sound, the lips close to let the sound resonate nasally before releasing air. Chrump Chrump Chrump. Like, what your mouth would feel like working through a bowl of Froot Loops. So satisfying! The outgoing Party of Chaos can’t stop chanting it on the cable news networks, as if trying to invoke the ancient furies, ghastly, terrifying figures with snakes for hair, dogs' heads, blood-red eyes, and bat-wings, brandishing torches and scourges to mortify their enemy.
Otherwise, fantasy aside, they are in paralysis as this enemy, Mr. Trump, marshals his pieces on the gameboard: Musk, Vivek, Bobby Jr, Tulsi, Bondi, Hegseth . . . . Ay-yeeeeee! They are coming to get us. . . . Somebody. . . do something. . . !
Okay, then, who, exactly, in the shadows behind the half-conscious ghoul in the White House, thinks that now is a great time to commence an ATACMS (Attack’ems) missile barrage on Russia as the very thing to salvage our Ukraine project? You’d naturally turn first to Blinken and Jake Sullivan, those gold-dust twins of overseas jiggery-pokery. Or, is it the geniuses at Spook Central, worried about the fumigating operation incoming with Mr. Ratcliffe? Or perhaps it’s the men-in-skirts over in the Pentagon, seeking to punish humanity because of the clerical error inflicted on them by the desk up-yonder that handles sexual assignments at birth. Blow it all up! |