There are many people of all shades and persuasions who wish you a speedy return to health. I think various factors propel such sentiments. First there is the humane and sincere propensity to not wish ill on others, to not want to sink into the swamp of hate that ensnares with ties that bind. Then there is the less benign fear of being seen as uncaring. There is probably also a desire to appear civil and mature – and to avoid criticism. Whatever.
My own feelings about you, arguably the most life threatening scum to ever slither across the planet, are a bit complicated. As an individual, I see you as way beneath contempt. I see a rampaging beast where I know the beast is just doing what comes naturally. Not an iota of choice involved. A victim of its own inner drives. Often you seem to me like such a beast growling outside morality, outside choice. Donald just being Donald. I can’t hate a spider, a boa constrictor, a lion, nor even a tiny little virus speck. So why hate you?
But the overriding fact is that you are not just another Donald. You are not a speck unto yourself. You are in power, and you cavort with others of your ilk. Thankfully, not everyone who likes you nor even everyone who adores you is remotely like you. Many Trump voters have multiple factors pushing and pulling them into your orbit. Their attachment to you may be mutable. Their escape might even be relatively quick and painless. Others, sadly, are perhaps so deeply embedded in your orbit, so tightly tied, that getting out will be a stupendously hard climb. Providing them ladders is a worthy act. Wishing you well so you can ensnare them even more tightly, not so much.
But, again, as to you – and of course, everything for you returns to you – you are not just a beast, but also a beast rider, a beast provoker, the Beast in Chief, and I must admit, you are good at it, better than most acknowledge. At once stupid as a turnip and effective as an idiot savant, you may yet make the best of having sickened yourself and having sickened even those guarding you, even those praising you, and of course millions of others by your anti-science self-seeking, power-seeking, deaf, dumb, and blind wizardry. You may get well and use that accident of clueless nature to strut and sputter that the Virus is no big deal: be like me, thank me, praise me, follow me, you would gleefully scream over the corpses of your victims. Skip the masks, skip the social distancing, go back to business as usual. Or, barely less destructively, maybe nature’s neutrality will make you remain sick and you will somehow parlay your pain into sympathy for the devil that is you. Or, finally, maybe you will die. Which outcome would I celebrate?
I am a child of the Sixties. Part of my milieu was love and kindness. Part of my milieu was dignity and respect. It is hard for me to wish ill on another individual. But back then there was also a song that seems to me more appropriate even a half century later than today’s get well soon messages whose motivation I can understand, and even feel sympathy with, but which I ultimately find out of time, out of place.
So here’s to you Dearest Donald, to you, not an individual but the foremost Master of War against all humanity. I hope someone turns on a stereo near your bed and plays Dylan singing this to you, over and over, just out of reach, so you can’t turn it off, until the end.
And then I would weep for your soul, but you don’t have one. I would bemoan the loss of your intelligence, but you don’t have any. I would lament the loss of your sly and slippery genius for self preservation, but the end of that would be a blessing for all.
Here, then. Listen. Listen. Until The End.
Veña, mestres da guerra
Ti que constrúes as grandes armas
Ti que constrúes os avións da morte
Ti que constrúes todas as bombas
bb
Ti que te escondes detrás das paredes
Ti que te escondes detrás dos escritorios
Só quero que o saibas
Podo ver a través das túas máscaras
bb
ti que nunca fixeches nada
Pero construír para destruír
Xogas co meu mundo
Como se fose o teu pequeno xoguete
bb
Pustes unha pistola na miña man
E escóndeste dos meus ollos
E dás voltas e corres máis lonxe
Cando voan as balas rápidas
bb
Como Xudas de sempre
Ti mentes e enganas
Pódese gañar unha guerra mundial
Queres que crea
bb
Pero vexo cos teus ollos
E vexo a través do teu cerebro
Como vexo a través da auga
Iso corre polo meu sumidoiro
bb
Escóndeste na túa mansión
Mentres que o sangue dos mozos
Flúe fóra dos seus corpos
E está enterrado na lama
bb
Botaches o peor medo
Iso nunca se pode lanzar
Medo a traer nenos
Para o mundo
bb
Por ameazar ao meu bebé
Non nacido e sen nome
Non vales o sangue
Iso corre polas túas veas
bb
Canto sei eu
Para falar sen quenda?
Poderías dicir que son novo
Poderías dicir que son un inculto
bb
Pero hai unha cousa que sei
Aínda que eu son máis novo ca ti
Que mesmo Xesús nunca o faría
Perdoa o que fas
bb
Permíteme facerche unha pregunta
O teu diñeiro é tan bo?
Mercaráche o perdón?
Cres que podería?
bb
Creo que atoparás
Cando a túa morte pasa factura
Todo o diñeiro que gañou
Nunca comprará a túa alma
bb
E espero que morras
E a túa morte chegará pronto
Seguirei o teu cofre
Nunha tarde pálida
bb
E mirarei mentres baixas
Ata o teu leito de morte
E estarei sobre a túa tumba
’Til I’m sure that you’re dead
ZNetwork está financiado unicamente pola xenerosidade dos seus lectores.
doar
4 comentarios
Mat Grind’s sober comments below are very much worth pondering. And Mike’s original article needs to be remembered.
Oomph. That was intense. Thanks Mike.
Thanks Michael, Excellent in style and content!
Trump dying would probably save some lives, and more easily preserve what democracy the USA has left. Trump living would continue this incompetent and uncaring response to the pandemic. Trump living (as it appears he will) will threaten the integrity of the next election, possibly moving the most powerful country in the world to a dictatorship.
Normally, I would simply think that the result of Trump dying would be nominal, his replacement would continue doing similar things, and the system would continue on. However, Trump is unusually selfish, and has a powerful base that might allow him to hold on to power, even if he is defeated. Therefore, his death would help matters.
Whereas, thinking back to George Bush, his death would not have done much good, his replacement would have simply carried on similar policies.
Trump is different, it seems.