Donald Trump Is All The Nuts Bernie Tapioca Needs

republican-presidential-candidate-trump-gestures-and-declares-youre-fired-at-a-rally-in-manchester

Hey, America, it’s that time again. That special, oh how we’ve missed you  – come here and let’s have a turn in the sack-  period. Bells are ringing, the eggnog is flowing and grandpa is passed out on our little brother’s 22-year-old girlfriend/dominatrix farting up a storm. That wonderful season where it should be a governmental priority, and a necessity, for the National Guard to nail up “Just Chill It” posters on every corner and hand out Xanax like Pez. That incredible period in the national coffers where every yokel thanks the Lord for corn subsidies and champagne is uncorked, not out of celebration, but simply because mother swilled down all the vodka. Nope, it’s not Christmas, although there’s a 90 percent chance the festival’s patrons will be old, fat and incredibly pale future-harp-pluckers.

It’s voting season!

America, can you hear them? The mumbling call of this magical season’s angels? Hark, there, up by Hollywood, the squabble of force-fed geese. The star-elite wreaking havoc and passing lectures from their Ivory Tower and Neo-Classical mansions. The liberal heron cry of “I’ll leave the country!”; the reassuring loon’s wail of “capitalist agenda!”; Sean Penn in a paroxysm on the floor doing his best “3 Stooges” impersonation. The guttural shriek and heralding comment of this year’s pundit announcing: “The end game of the American experiment is… We might as well get it over with and elect…”

Over by other latitudes, “they” whoever “they” might be are getting the scapegoat treatment. The blame game debacle of this nation’s problems being tossed around like a loaded grenade in search of THAT minority with little to no sway in the ballot booths. The general rule in debating, and every chief of campaign’s golden charter, is being upheld:

“America and its people are great. Screw the math, sandblast the studies and flick off the statistics. We’re hunky dory, it’s their fault. They’re to blame for everything and, just in case, also indict them of our high cholesterol problems and the starvation of Syrian Refugees. Act positive… Spin the fact that we are up to our eyes in debt with the Chinese into a win.”

Pig valves being produced in an assembly line like speed, obvious red flags being tossed across the blue fence like a bloated corpse, the mysterious and odious “they” once more being put on Santa’s naughty list underneath their obvious cohorts: Carmen Sandiego and Keyser Soze. On the other side of the fence, there is a whistle, a rug is raised from a quick tidying up of a fetid stiff swept clean under.

“Nothing to see, move along.”

The real victims of this raising-the-metabolism and diva show contest are the furry folks of the animal kingdom with those on the equestrian sidelines getting slapped about for their obvious ballot favoritism.

Yes, its electoral time and every two-bit reporter on the planet is defrosting and ironing his loose pants, otherwise, textile constraint might end up being detrimental to their blood flow. They’re sharpening their wits, stealing from the best, and overall dancing about in a naked stupor screaming “ma, ma, ma, my opinion matters.” This last bit, I can ascertain from experience; typing with a massive erection is no easy task. Time for a rant!

It’s that point where every self-respecting magazine, blog, website or flop-house cum stained newsletter, draws the line, picks a side and hopes the Constitution, free will and all those pesky rights of liberty, weren’t a massive clusterfuck from the very beginning. That point where even Highlight magazine dons its red tie and…

“Mom, what’s this?”

“Jesus, Tommy! What did you do?”

“I just connected the dots. See.”

Up goes a crude drawing. A possible sketch by Bosch when imagining Hell.

“That can’t be right. Check the back cover. That’s unnatural.”

“It’s called ‘four-legged party… What’s ‘sodomy’? Mom, that donkey seems sad. Why won’t Dumbo stop riding his back?”

Truth, modesty and, above all, subtlety is being taken to the curb along last year’s Christmas tree. A Mephistophelian glint edging across many editors’ grins as Panamanian bank accounts gorge with sudden influxes. The savvy mind willing to sell off grandma for a check heavy with zeros. Endorsements having the moral value of horse manure on the surface of Mars.

The same tactics and technics, so dull and institutionalized, that newspapers have no other choice but to ship them to the far corners of their periodicals. Dirty dealing, slimy scheming and tarnished tactics, as newsworthy and original as the latest tale of a Washington lobbyist moving to a country club penitentiary. The nation is desensitized to the 6th-page scoop.

A cage fight railing with the same two prize fighters of late, two weary systems deciding to obfuscate what the 2015 movie year thought of humanity: reboots aren’t a dirty word as long as you pay your respect to the original.

“Pass the torch, grandpa.”

A public looks at their two choices, dumbfounded with the realization that they are not voting for a system they truly want… They’re casting their tickets just to keep the other guy away from that comfy seat at the Oval Office. The strategy, lesser of two evils, has become age old wisdom in campaign bunkers.

My stand, in particular, is that if those are my two alternatives then there is much to be said of that old Swiss attitude of minding the floral upkeep on those fertile sidelines. Neutrality being the tsk, tsk, tsk, finger wagging to a hopeful nonstarter debacle that will only end up poking its pee-pee in a mixed soup. It’s a toxic fusion and radioactive amalgamation that has lately obtained the rancorous odor of a sewage plant… A clammy swill, known as a two party system. each party spitting out extreme candidates of their doctrines; no room for middle ground. Consultants are getting ready for the obligatory gerrymandering of electoral districts. An old art form transformed into science.

Let’s take a long hard look – trying our best to not fall prey to America’s new favorite past time, Donald bashing; whack a mole with a need of a hairdresser – and truly behold the cobwebbed carnival that politics has devolved into. An Ad Absurdum mess that has the rest of the planet raising their eyebrows and saying:

“Really?!”

You have an off-the-deep-end, cosmetically enhanced candidate, who has actually – in a supercilious manner – declared that he’s Batman, fighting in a grudge-match, not against the Man Of Steel, but mano a mano versus Democratic tapioca. A lukewarm pudding confection, that may very well be the healthy choice for the autumn of our lives, and beneficial for the dentally challenged, but not up to par against an intestinal busting Tabasco filled with ulcer-inducing Chipotle Pepper.

“Look this one has brakes, airbags, comfort and a good gas per mile ratio. That? That’s a dinosaur juice guzzler with an F-16 engine strapped to the hood. Does it get satellite radio?… Eh, I’ll get the papers ready. Mark you down for the undercoating and all the ‘essential’ add-ons. Nope, those are not air quotes, just trying to stamp out a fly.”

Mister Filibuster against a man who might have un-diagnosed Tourettes or, at the very least, a case of brain tweaking syphilis that’s beating away with a NERF bat at his diplomatic filter.

“What about Hillary?!” The logical wing protests. “The American people are wise and fair.”

The wisdom of the American people…Uhmm… Let’s be honest, half of us are demented gerbils who horde, and with fervor, shiny things. We have the attention span of hummingbirds  and belong in cages. Think I’m exaggerating? Just check out some of the social section on the CNN feed or Huffington Post’s Florida Man. 50 percent of us are wackier than the cast of Arrested Development on Molly. Ever seen the reality show 1000 Ways To Die, just remember that most stories on there come straight from our backyard.

Somewhere, in the 90s, some villainous mastermind slipped LSD into our water supply; it’s the only reasonably sane explanation.

So, let’s leave Hillary out of this insane asylum, we an visit her with an article on master manipulation. And stick to:

A) An insufferable overpaid egomaniac. A man who acts nuttier than a granola bar; a calculated computer recipe of loony tunes energetics. A wall of sound designed by the best PR campaign. The general consensus, “Be the headline, no matter what.”

B) Flan. I should say more, but let’s be honest, Bernie is walking NyQuil… Extra strength.

Just, for a second recoil and picture what any of these staunch big shots will elicit when they start playing patty cake with some of the most violent, vile, and powerful regimes on Earth; a conclave of individuals who believe democracy is an elastic concept. Mister Burns-like fingers creating an army of mirrored church steeples, awaiting the return of “the Dark One”. In walks the Big Man from Capitol Hill. A gasp… 

“That’s rich,” goes insert execrable stereotypical fiend. “This ought to be interesting.”

Certainly not the everyday predictable projection of rhetoric and posturing those desperadoes have come to expect from the U.S.

Bernie will be drawing out the brouhaha, in such a dull and boring matter that Putin might rather play solitary Russian Roulette than hear another word. While, if Donald’s reckless attitude makes it to the boardroom, even England will be wetting its pants in suspicion and suspense, less our POTUS goes batshit crazy and decides to personally adorn the gates of the next G8 summit with the embalmed spiked heads of dignitaries.

Two options are worming themselves into the barrel of a shotgun; chipotle or tapioca. Low hanging fruit, each lowballing their party’s foundations, trying to appease the lowest denominator in a slow foot race for the highest chair.

Who will be the nation’s next enabler?

The American people, now find themselves facing the psychological quagmire of eight tepid years of doing the same boring sexual position. Lights out, missionary, goodnight kiss, zero kinky fiascos. Even Playboy has turned the purist cheek and gone soft. 8 years, where it seems that nothing has actually happened. 8 years, where Obama and his presidency has been a distant ghost, programming static in the background of our troubles. The idea of, “If you don’t hear from us, then we are doing our jobs” is not passing the smell test. At least half the years were tanked thanks to Republican obstructionism and growing smirks as we all wonder out-loud why their smiles are SO big when we know exactly where and how deep they are shoving their own thumbs.

Where’s the excitement, where’s the intrigue, where’s the panache, the swagger and the flamboyancy we’ve come to expect of the Presidency?

Bush Jr, for all his faults, was the leader of a cabal of coked up frat-boys that made John Belushi take his beer hat off in heaven and bow in recognition. Cheney’s duck fiasco, Condoleezza’s take on national security, the misplacement of those WMD’s, and, for an added bonus, Sarah Palin in a bikini, nuff’ said. Before that, Clinton – a one man army of anecdotes – playing hide the cigars with interns under the cool jazz of his sax. Hours of “Guess What That Stain Is?” on Larry King. Congress was going insane with the definition of sex and penetration. They built building high stacks of Blowjob Studies and even the dynamics of a fellatio were placed under scrutiny. Papa George’s war on terrorism, drugs, weed, Kuwait. Reagan’s, well, Reagan’s everything. And, down that list was a maelstrom of funny business.

Obama, sadly, is doing the equivalent of desk duty in what’s suppose to be the fifth precinct in the hottest section of Hades. White House planning and dealing ha,s as of late become a dull mishmash of educational video games. Or, worse… gasp… that run of Walking Dead episodes that critics bash. Those 4 or 5 chapters were the characters hang around and contemplate the echoes of time; we’re ready, frothing like lusty nerds, for sweep’s week. We know the potential FUBAR just waiting to coalesce. 

We’ve become so blunted that we stare out into the screen and  we seem to have lost a true grasp of reality. Drones, looking out at drones. We stare out transfixed at the traffic wreck of Donald and see the dramatic plot twists the nightly news might take. Bernie, someone wake me up when something cool happens, Sanders is a continuation of the same adrenaline deprived state of affairs. Our lesser angels spell out what’s to come. Our underoos hang atop the limp tranquility of peacetime. Voting, any first year marketing expert will tell you, is a purely emotional exercise. Our minds are on standby, our logic is baking shortcake, our chemical makeup is in the driver’s seat doing lines of coke.

Our loins are doing that stamping. American television programming imbecility gifts campaign managers with the proper guidelines to employ. Their Reality Television programming is one component, that in a divided nation, seems to join red and blues alike… What will happen on The Voice and Duck Dynasty? Lobbies, chiefs of staff, and gurus working on the ideals emancipated by Snooky; the public mentally having orgasms towards the new tableau. Political spin doctors mold these esoteric constructs into strategic catnip designed to seduce the masses.

The Republican’s “trumping” the game in their favor.

Let me leave you a few spaces to absorb that last profound piece of information.

Intentional space beginning…

 

 

…and we’re back.

The Republican’s are sprinkling holy water on Donald’s face hoping for a miracle. Knowing that if push comes to shove they’ll have to stand by the man. Demented, downplayed, downright derisive and depraved Donald dreaming of his destiny. A darkly deathblow dealt at donkey democrats by D’ man. 

The Democrats meanwhile roll vanilla custard about.

“Smile Bernie, be the nation’s grandpa. Or, better yet, the hip college professor.”

The Democrats are going to the mats, seeing that Hell has gotten chilly and that there is a snowball’s chance that was President Donald might just take place. It’s a battle to a finish line. The objective… Make Bernie, cool.

“Get him on Kimmel! Write his speeches! Flaunce out his Martin Luther King Jr pic’! Exhibit it all.”

“Shouldn’t we focus on the message? He is rather smart, that’s a first in any election I’ve been privy to… A precious gem.”

“Screw the message, half the voters think he’s a socialist…”

“Do they even know the meaning of the word?”

“Perception… Wait, brainstorm. Use his weakness as a strength. Mike, get me color swatches and the biggest joint this side of Colorado. Dress Bernie up like the Che fucking Guevera, might seal the hippie vote.”

A hail Mary Pass of crucifixes and Tibetan monk chants thrown at the true Gods of Media perception; the WiFi deities of the internet.

A youthful generation that has  once-more submitted to Country Club bickering and Yacht society power grabs. Devoid of anything new, they think to themselves (as they stare out at mummies warped in Botox, cholesterol lowering meds and narcotics design to get “it” up) and wonder whether any of the two candidates, if devoid of ego, actually want the job.

Bernie seems to prefer a goodnight’s sleep over all the cornucopia of reckless and rigorous rebels “apparently” batting down the gates. “They” have to be stopped…

While Donald is sweating bullets, coming down to the realization that despite the many spike strips, non-sequitur landmines and outlandish behavior he’s tossed onto his own crusade he actually has a fair shot of landing the beluga whale that is the hotbed of conspiracy known as the Lincoln Room and all his little brothers.

I like to think that Trumps’ bid for the presidency was a smashing lark on his part that mutated from National Lampoon to a future Oliver Stone biopic. A campaign predicated on a joke.

“Why?” went his future ex.

Ehh, more money than God… I’m bored.”

The man, his associates and every one of his cronies were going out of their way in order to maximize a payoff that never came to pass. It was supposed to be a laugh track collecting dust. It was supposed to be a gag-reel tape of his bid, masterfully edited for the Christmas Party, being tossed into the flames. Instead its a cross between THAT Joaquin Phoenix film and a Christopher Buckley novel. And halfway through the sketch, a mad-war committee, a boardroom of execs’ are staring down, open-mouthed (like half their supporters do when at rest or thinking too hard) at exit polls. Their lifetime boss must be marveling at the reversal of circumstances:

“Seriously?”

A phantom specter begins gestating in his heart. It’s an embryonic outhouse sussing into his processor a vivid a nightmare, a ghastly scenario. He glimpses the day post-inauguration, when his inner Narcist having been properly jerked and his trousers are once more relaxing after considerable Viagra-worthy stiffness. There is the view from the Oval Office looming like a black vulture inspecting roadkill.

“Crap…”

The sheer dreadful knowledge that he just forwent a lifetime of judging skimpy swimsuits and LDG evening gowns for actual backbreaking work. The situation in the Ukraine and dealing with those pesky barbaric hipster liberals is a taxing maelstrom far more indicative towards Acid Reflux than bullying cupcake artists on The Apprentice.

“Woe and desolation unto my house!”

Meanwhile, the Taxpayer is content in the knowledge that political scriptwriter finally got his shit together. It’s a Peripeteia, the turning point, in a drama that needed some napalm.

“… At least, he’s more interesting than that other guy…”

U.S., one heck of a country, just a little confused at the moment.

 

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