[with apologies to Kerouac & Minchin]
While the left-wingers scramble to make peace between Clinton and Sanders;
While the right-wingers, god-n-guns-clingers quibble over forever or never and other matters;
While the indies bunch their undies in delusional desperation of a third-party cavalry with no explanation;
I’m left wondering what the fuck you’re all thinking … so, I’ve taken to drinking.
It’s mid-May as I write this and I’m sposed ta be working but somewhere in the background my subconscious is twerking and herking and jerking with the unmistakable doomed feeling they’re about to make Trump king.
In my brain of brains, I know it.
That the electorate has blown it.
Donald J. Trump will be the next President of the United States … or POTUS
What manner of hocus-pocus could produce such a POTUS?
With no one to save us, not even the SCOTUS.
Though, I must concede, we’d have one sexified FLOTUS.
But, that’s not the question. So, what is the question?
I’m so glad you aksed.
But, first, let me aks you a question—a soliloqus survey of facetious intention—why won’t you take “yes” for an answer?
This Tangerine Tasmanian Devil with a Tourette Infection introduced himself as such early in the elections.
He showed us his ass and we all laughed.
He threw shit at the pundits and, man, we all loved it.
He threatened and swore, bragged about his whore (the one from the Jersey shore) … and we asked for more.
Hour after hour, he slow-marched to power while you liked and shared and selfied and glared at the retweets of retweets about whether his hair was real—here nor there!
All the pants-pissing, hand-wringing, threats-to-move-to-France-singing won’t save you from the tangerine screams of the pileated POTUS.
Consider this notice!
Now it’s not so funny, him ranting about unfriending Britain and giving Japan nukes and dismantling the U.N. … it’s enough to give me the pukes.
The problem’s not that he’s so bad but that we’re not so good.
I mean, who are we to balk?
Are we really much better?
We’re all bullshit and talk and … I don’t know, something that rhymes with “better.” (Wetter? Sweater? Better?)
Donald Trump is a narcissist?
You’re a fucking narcissist with a much smaller friends list.
The Donald is stupid?
What’s the last million-dollar business deal you did?
Or the last book you read?
Or the last deep quote you said?
Or the last homeless man you fed?
Or the last drop of blood you bled … fighting for those congressional cunts living off the taxes
skimmed from broken backses
of high-dollar companies who exploit employees
with bullshit ploys of Horatio Alger proportions
while they ration your portions …
and tell you they cannot reimburse your labors
cuz your neighbor’s kids finally gots healthcare
and that just isn’t fair
that a country this rich should hafta make the switch
from wringing profit from blue collars
and giving those dollars to the top one percent of the top one percent of the top one percent of the top one percent.
Yes, he’s terrible but he’s no terribler than most of the rest of us or half of the best of the most of the lest of us or some such fanatical mathematical parenthetical ornithological bullshit I can’t even comprehend-ical.
Why aks why? Try Drumpf Wine.
We’re too busy getting high and indulging in 50 Shades of Hunger Games and getting shitty and pissy about contemporary hippies.
Love thy bacon!
Hate thy Hipster!
You can’t call that lady mister! (Let’s call it a truce, Bruce)
But consider this, sirs: we’re all fucking Hipsters.
Every last one of us, from the yuppies to the stumble-bums.
With our kilts and beards and vinyl and craft beers made from chrysanthemum tassels and Jesus Lizard assholes;
Super Nintendos and vintage typewriters, trippin on Tom Waits and sniffin highlighters.
The Greatest Generation looked down on the Boomers and they really hate us fucking GenX losers.
And don’t even get me started on those Netflix, selfie sticks Millennial pricks.
We’re all Internet famous, conveniently blameless, while the ice caps melt and ISIS chops heads off lookin like pissed off Bee Gees and y’all still fussin over what kind of wee-wees the he-shes needs-be to tinkle in public privies.
Some dude on the news in JC Penny slacks and cheap shoes probably made at Nike HQs by a Chinese youth in a suicide booth said Trump’s got the foreign policy chops of a chimpanzee in argyle socks.
I may have embellished the part about his tootsies but the point remains salient in that the dude’s a bit bazooky … but, no more than the rest of us, all except the best of us.
On the social we’re all experts on nutrition, war, politics and more.
And, that would be fine if the truth weren’t aligned with the fact that most of us can’t balance a checkbook or lose weight or make it to a second date—let alone broker a piecemeal peace deal between Israel and the Palestinian State. (You heard me, Netanyahu!)
We jump before looking, respond without listening, and that ain’t even the worse thing.
We use each other as verbal punching bags because it’s cheaper than therapy … and we all know therapy’s for fags.
We seem to be OK with the stigma which really is an enigma because most of us could use a few sessions to lessen the anxiety and fucking depression and get rid of those bags, fucking luggage … under our eyes.
Scared and angry and dishonest about it.
We’re a bunch of fucking liars—there, I said it!
We lie every day in our own way.
Some of us lie a little about little old things, and some of us bullshit about every goddamn thing.
And, that’s OK, because we like to be lied to ev-er-y ev-er-y day-ee-ay.
Here comes the Drumpf, happy to oblige.
He’ll tell you the biggest, the best, the most awesomest lies.
Can’t find a job?
Blame an immigrant slob.
Not paid enough?
Your boss is taxed too damned much.
Junior’s a moron?
Blame the public teacher union.
Can’t get an erection?
That’s cuz Obama won the election.
DJT is gonna MAGA.
“Make America Great Again” is the slogan for this saga.
And, let’s face it: you don’t really give a shit how he intends to perform … so long as you can keep playing Candy Crush Saga and watching Eskimo porn.
Who wants to do hard work to fix America’s ills?
Get Donnie boy elected and he’ll pay the bills.
You know who Donald J. Trump is?
He’s Jack Nicholson’s character in “The Witches of Eastwick.”
The dude’s obviously evil AF and nobody seems to give a shit … except for a handful of folks left scratching their heads but they’ll be labeled as bitches and witches and burned in their Abercrombie & Fitches until they is dead.
Fucking dead, I say!
What’s fashionable about fascism? It rewards the weak, mean and stupid.
It’s so late now, bro, I don’t even know what to do, kid.
He can be funny and charming, I’ll give that to him.
Though, it’s utterly alarming, the things he plans on doin.
But, like I said in the beginning, it’s too late to turn back.
America’s going to prom with the asshole quarterback.
We’re gonna be finger-banged in the backseat of the Trump-mobile and left on a gravel road
with no shoes, no coat, no way to get home.