Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Down Town

When You're Alone And You Got No Place To Go

 The Weasel Who Lives On Trump's Head Is Restless.
Oh, And Bad Tie Choice. Loser Tie.

When you're finally alone in Downtown America, it's apparent that all sentient life hates Trump.  It's in the papers, on the Intertubes; it's what everyone is thinking when they aren't hating other people. Our Pestident in Washdeecee hates him in a way only the living embodiment of Woodrow Wilson can.

The Partei Republikanner, which gave him his own convention, hates him, too. The Weasel who lives on his head hates him, and it's beginning to show -- it's possible the Weasel has even bitten him once or twice in public.  Even the people who support him actually hate him for making them support him.  He is unfit to be Pepsodent, and by all accounts is unfit to be anything, except a Rubber Bear in the Museo Di Trumpo -- and no one is really sure about that.

Slight Adjustments To A Mr Fish Cartoon From 2012.  

The Repub party is the victim of its own Badness, but even if it refuses to die, it will lie down, and on top of its own Candydate. The Elephant hates him.

So... it will be a near-decade of America being led into a future where all its citizens are monetized, monitored, and shamed if they haven't purchased the latest shiny technology, and where the Old must not be seen or indulged. It is The Time Of She. But it cannot be yet -- or, can it?

We're not enamored of anti-climaxes here in Downtown America. Do we have to wait?  She must be crowned; we must see her Coronation Balls, and there must be The Historic Speech; school children will be allowed to take the day off in order to witness it. Whether by Trumpo or She, there's a so-called Democratic Republic to be dismantled, one way or another. Let's get it over with, huh?