Supercaliffffffake news, people!

A Calming Story in Three Acts of Serenity (or was it Sarin?):

 

 

1)    The Nexus: Star Trek, Political Conventions, and post-Wu Flu America

 

The Nexus. The bridge between worlds in the Star Trek film “Generations”. You know, the space film with Malcolm McDowell where William Shatner hands over the Trek film franchise to Patrick Stewart? Don’t know it? Well, you’d suck less if you did.

 

Back to this notorious-now-that-I-mentioned-it Nexus. As well as being a cheap and easy way to make sci-fi references, it also could also describe (wait for it) the cosmic divide between political camps in the emerging 2020’s United States. Yes, I know, you were expecting a Star Trek convention. Well, too bad, it’s 2020, the Wu-Flu lockdown season, the Year of the Rats; the Trek convention isn’t happening anyway, Sultan Eric Garcetti demands it. More importantly, also in doubt as of this writing (May 2020) are the overblown schmooze fests known as the DNC/RNC Conventions. Sounds like an international genetic weapons treaty, doesn’t it? Maybe some obscure plumbing techniques? Wrong, it’s what you thought: two giant, balloon-filled revivals, starring two ever-pliant, hot air-filled rivals.

 

Like warring music festival camping parties fighting over who spilled the drugs or incestuous 1848 Appalachian mountain clans clashing over who’s shine still that there is over yonder, (what’s the difference, really), the daily fierce competition over who’s homie committed an unforgivable sin of an outrageous party foul is the nope that springs eternal; the thrashing seas battering our beleaguered ship of American state. Or starship, if we’re counting more gratuitous underhanded nerd-scheming. Starship Enterprise perhaps? Wait, didn’t some President give that name to some third-world small business scheme? Shouldn’t they all?

 

Back to this ancient tribal art of the warring factions known as personality cults, denouncing each other at every turn with sound barrier-breaking speeds of prejudice. On one side, the progressives (or are they mountain goats; they both smash mindlessly into their rivals): ideologically passed out on that vomit-strewn festival soil or mountain pass where clamoring sirens (or at least clamoring people) announce the morning STD fumigation sessions while the natives try to remember who they’re in bed with and what year it is, much less where they are.

 

On the other side, the ironically named “conservatives”, with their savage, fear-inducing war paint that would make the Vikings weep: casual red yacht hats, khakis, men, plastic straws… oh my. Seriously, a “conservative” person would not run around in bright red yacht hats with slogans on them, much less start a protest movement to hack a fascist martial curfew regime. Like Scarlett watching her plantation house burn down, the genteel socialists weep at these demon-licking flames of free expression.

 

These two raging, giant, coked-up rhetorical rhinoceroses on the lam can appear mirror images of each other depending on what time of the day Jim Acosta is Lindsay Graham and Lindsay Graham is Jim Acosta. Fetid camps of corruption and graft the lot of them, they vacillate like primordial microscopia between casually writing each other off with a folksy buffet of slights, or, when they want to go all out, putting their mean faces on and conjuring up all manner of Rapturous Doom that will ensue if you let the other side pick the movie, much less head a government agency.

 

Call it what you want in the US of A: Republican versus Democrat; Left versus Right; Liberal versus Conservative, bacon versus everything else… On and on it goes, aping each other at every turn as the sum of all evil. North versus South, city slickers versus farm folk; Klingons versus Romulans; like most places with human beings (or Vulcans), there is no shortage of colorful American verbiage to describe how utterly bereft of decency and good sense those people over there (Right there! You!) are.

 

2)    The Hallowed Rats’ Nests of Congress

 

Leading this pompous charge across the largess of populous North America are those ever stalwart grifters, the United States Congress. Fact is, most members of the US Congress are more or less guided by some combination of bribery, deception, and threats of past imbroglios being revealed, regardless of party. It’s a business where the most prominent official, the US President, makes less in a year than people who scrub toilets for pop celebrities (just kidding, celebrities select only the freshest heirloom cartel slaves).

 

What these jobs lack in official salary and perks, the wily squatters inhabiting them make up for with other ingeniously shady ways. Witness only the contemporary glossy politicos who artfully humblebrag about their epic, Oscar-worthy struggle of being a lowly but endlessly plucky millionaire (ask them how they got it at your own risk), fighting the good fight against the demonic possession of the planet by people slightly, marginally wealthier than them. This toxic Stasi personality type - the scourge of HOAs and local government councils the world over – portend to magically burn holes in their chosen heathen victims with their laser eyes of solemn devotion to the “American people”. 

 

These swarthy, hardy barnacles savagely cling to the bizarre prestige of being the lowest-paid (discounting bribery, corporate crime, and slush funds) and most-ridiculed of celebrities. After all, it’s well known that proper celebrities aren’t supposed to punch down and run for office, hence the outrage and mourning for the great loss of the carefree tycoon version of Donald Trump that has hung a pall of wistful remembrance over the nation since that fateful voyage of 2016. Only the fawning-tool-of-organized-crime type of subhuman aspiring to reputationally whore for Tesla, McDonald’s, or Al-Shabaab – the kind who wouldn’t get within sniffing distance of a Malibu mansion before a throng of private security with bazookas and shark tanks nabbed them up - are the type of people who make a career of elected office.

 

These sporting fools provide surgical clinics in how to live like bottom-feeding scavengers in Sponge Bob costumes who yelp inanely like starving small dogs at the prospect of attention from other, better-paid, better-looking celebrities. Their ritual morning self-absorption hangover routine is deciding which brand of voodoo PR mind-wash (white, black, green, pink, rainbow, etc.) to gurgle and spit out at the world like Alien venom, with special ferocity for anyone smelling even remotely dastardly enough to attempt to point out that they had changed their story from the day before. Like the Islamic call to prayer suddenly blasting over a badly tuned megaphone at WTF’o’clock in the morning in your neighborhood, these alleged prophets belt out incantations of supremely interstellar importance along the lines of, “DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!?” Such is the charming legacy of a political culture firmly guided by the stoutest of legal and moral sophistry, combined with a precious overabundance of Wall Street-approved pharmaceutical escapism. In this here dreamy club, any issue position is valid once some fool deems it so on any given day. In fact, Health Department regulations declare shame and exile will come swift like the sword of Allah to any rambunctious infidel sly enough to ask anything along the lines of, “Doesn’t that contradict what you said a week ago, Mrs. Senator?”

 

 

3)    Trumpasaurus Rex and the Day the Earth Stood Orange

 

This brings us back to the current reality of the great global 2020 Wuhan social meltdown. They say, (never trust any group named “they”, much less what they “say”) that it is a public health crisis like never seen before by the living, and possibly anyone else before that, (looking at you, dinosaurs, you bunch of fucking whiners). It is declared existentially imperative that for the sake of the master race (oops, we meant “American people”) we must all be intellectually (much less functionally) straightjacketed and locked away in padded emotional cells of pristine obedience or everyone, everywhere, EVER, will die. The Amazing Covid will even kill Winnie the Pooh and Wonder Woman if you poke your filthy, diseased, spewing-mouth head outside, just like it did Kobe.

 

Too soon? Nah, never let a good family crisis go to waste, the Emanuel clan demands it. To those of us a bit more steeled against such mental mumbo jumbo from a bunch of bent cops bought off by the mob, we know that we have already seen a far, far more disastrous hijacking of our capacity to cope in the last few years, and the entrance of the Kung Flu menace is only par for the course. The Great, Unsung, Epically Historic Viral Outbreak of 2016 that still rages across the Northern Hemisphere like a “Fast and Furious” remake of the Aurea Borealis is none other than the tragic, terrible, tyrannical pathology burning up the dance floor like the chick from the Quentin Tarantino-directed smash of 2049, “When Travolta Met Vesuvius”: yes, that infamous, Earth-shattering, pop culture dark arts pathological outbreak flung far and wide and suffered deep known colloquially in parts as the “Abominable Orange Fever”, (David Attenborough voice, please)the famed Trump Derangement Syndrome.

 

This legendary orange Godzilla-spew inferno of anti-Trumpian hysteria scorched the Earth like a wicked-bad but awesome spell from a Harry Potter villain burning it all down while listening to the latest Ministry of Melt Your Fucking Face album. This anti-intellectual supernova of black hole sunburn wreaked epileptic havoc across the hippie-stablishment planet-wide, conjuring up black site torture nightmares of being force-binged on bad Iranian LSD (or whatever’s lying around your average black site) to Enya at 140 dB while being Clockwork Orange forced-eyed to watch Silvio Berlusconi tricked out on PCP and steroids using Angela Merkel as a sock puppet while Al Sharpton grinds someone’s limbs into sausage in the background for unknown reasons and purpose while wearing nothing but ladies’ panties and a chainsaw. (Come to think of it, that sounds pretty horrific, maybe we’ll split the check and say visions of something somewhat more generically but not too remotely unpleasant? Perhaps the end of the world? Spilt milk? Too much mayo? An off-Broadway production of CATS? Any production of CATS?

 

You get the point. The world pretends to lose its mind over the alleged legend of the Wuhan Kung Flu terror when those mental marbles had already spilled out a few years prior. In fact, perhaps the PC Police should call themselves “spilt” instead of “woke”. At any rate, now we’re incarcerated in the penal colony of slipping on them and stumbling around smashing into everything like Sylvester the Cat right before the house blows up until the election in November. Will the universe swallow itself whole if President Donald Trump gets re-elected? Don’t you already know? DO YOU KNOW WHO I AM?!?

 

 

 

The End