Nuclear Nutcase and Suitcase

Having had quite a long time to cogitate on these things (3 days ago I hit 86), I have seen nuclear weapons as being little more than a means by which small nations as well as big ones could beat themselves on the chest gorilla-style while yowling at each other without risk of having their bluffs called.   But now that too large a proportion of the U.S. "white" population has let sheer racial hatred get the better of them and they have put into the Oval Office a creature much more terrifying than any gorilla, i.e. a human gone berserk with power, all bets are off – except one.   That one bet, that one hope is that the U.S. military has long since seen the need to quietly but thoroughly disable the button in the legendary nuclear suitcase that U.S. Presidents are thought to have available at all times.    If the military hasn't done that by now, then they are all traitors of the worst kind, to the U.S., and, even more, to the entire planet, since the planet counts for much, much more than do the political considerations of any number of self-absorbed nation-states.

On the other hand, however, what makes me think that the military would act any more responsibly in this matter than would the Executive or any other branch of the Government?   Am I hoping for a coup, or something of that nature?   --Not really, though that would be interesting.  Everything that is bad news for T. Rump is good news for this country.

A Fine Kettle of Fish

Six months after a sizable portion of the so-called "white" population took advantage of a grievous and badly overlooked loophole in the American electoral system enough to enable a  life-long ignoramus named T. (for "Tweetybird") Rump to assume the formerly dignified and even revered office of President of the United States, it's hard to believe that Rump's admirers can be happy with the fine kettle of fish in which their boy finds himself  boiling every hour of the day and the night.  To all intents and purposes he is functionally illiterate, and so is able to communicate with that semi-conscious  entity, the "American People," only by means of that literacy-killer, twitter feeds.   Equally unable to call upon the little that remains of common decency in the Republican Party, he is forced to fill the White House rooms and halls only with low-lifers who resemble nothing so much as they do pockets of maddened piranhas in always bloodied Brazilian rivers.  Otherwise he spends his time riding from place to place and inhabiting fields where the thing is to hit little white balls into little black holes.   And the only policy that he can be said to be pursuing is to reverse everything that his much worthier predecessor in that office, B. Obama, pursued.   Rump figures that that is the easiest thing to do to keep up his impersonation of chief executive.   But finding the flaws that everything that Rump, his grown children, and his companions in crime do are really what is like shooting fish in a barrel, and there's never a shortage of  those misdeeds, from one day to the next.   The MSM is happier than they want to let on.

Medieval Man

Today we have a situation in which a large segment of the white population has foisted upon the rest of the United States, black, brown, red, and white alike, a 71-year-old self-admitted grabber of women’s genitals.   That segment accomplished that heinous act by strong-arming this man into the supposedly high office of the President of those United States.

I have given this man a name.   His first name is “Tweetybird.”  That applies because he is a total ignoramus who has admitted that he has not read a  book since he was in high school, and that has left him able to communicate  only through the use of a dubious service called “Twitter,” in which messages are limited to a maximum of no more than 140 letters.   And his last name, his surname, his family name is “Rump,” which applies because of the bodily feature that he is most fond of presenting to the world.   Thus his full name is “Tweetybird Rump.”

Another name would be just as fitting.   It is “Tyrannosaurus Rump.”   And in fact that name could be even more apt, because it refers to the thing that his  supporters like most about him: his constant readiness to chew on and to chew out other living beings and to fight.   They will never defend him on the basis of whether or not something is right or wrong.   That means nothing to them.  Instead they sing his praises because so far he has spent the bulk of his time in the Oval Office in fighting – fighting back against his numerous, justified critics, since everyone, even his supporters, know that he has absolutely no business being there. 

  Meanwhile the “Tyrannosaurus” also fits because the policies that he espouses and that he flings wildly about like mud against a water tower reveal a hunger to see the rest of the world dragged back into the period in which he would feel the most comfortable, assuming that his caretakers have told him about it, during their bed time stories – the medieval Dark Ages.