THE GREAT CONTEST
The enthralling horror show that is the 2024 Presidential Campaign. We begin with a brief synopsis of the conditions at hand.
AMERICA! We have what?
We have our ex-President, running again to be President, a large fake-tanned property developer and professional swindler from our unofficial national capital of New York, freshly convicted as a felon in a court of law for a series of rather mundane charges surrounding a very non-mundane extramarital tryst with a porn star, hawking merch through all caps fundraising texts to his followers, limited edition collab hats MAGA meets Thin Blue Line. In many ways, Donald Trump is an exemplar of American Excessiveness taken to its logical conclusion - a career built on hyperbole, a people that flocks ravenously to each hyperbolic kill, single-minded winged beasts screeching down from the sky to gorge on the carrion, sickly bloodlust seems tame when compared to the gnashing and tossing of hunks of rotten flesh left by the predator. The birds assume the predator must have been a lion to make such a kill on the open plains, but the lion was actually a fat man with a gun and a capable staff that drove him within shooting distance of his prey where he could rise from his plush seat in the shade and fire - CRACK across the savanna and the prey animal falls. The hunter smiles and shakes hands with his staff before driving off, back toward the resort, leaving the flesh to rot in the hot sun and please the vultures who sing praises of the great predator that provides.
And then we have our current President, a man who inspires no depth of feeling, a seemingly decent man as far as politicians go, despite certain inconvenient opinions and actions from the past like support for a very red-blooded crime bill or the magic trick that was the invasion of Iraq, watch this hand not the other, a man who has undeniably become an old man, teetering about with a wavering voice, flashing a smile in a poorly understood mischievous moment. He’s a man who may have done Great Things in his day, and so he is well-liked, or at least liked enough, but as he wanders about the backyard grill and chill telling the same war story for the eighth time, he is offered a seat; it is suggested he sit inside in the air conditioning; “Why don’t you come sit over here with Nancy?” and the other guests smile no teeth quiet sympathy as he saunters off to the sidelines to rest. “He’s a good man,” they say, but no one offers to let him run the grill, and someone may offer to drive him home. It’s been getting harder for him to see at night, so it’s probably not the safest thing to let him out on the roads. The guests generally agree on this point, but in this scenario, that quiet nodding agreement is followed with another question, something casual along the lines of, “Sir, do we have the go-ahead to strike the sensitive target with hellfire missiles? Rain down fire and fury, turn the land into a hellscape, an inferno of death and destruction? Civilian casualties can’t be entirely avoided and there is the risk of subsequent escalation into open warfare, but…” But at least he is off the roads at night, and they can feel good about that. We must also note, this President’s son was just freshly convicted as a felon in a court of law for a series of rather mundane charges surrounding a very non-mundane crack binge during which he purchased a gun that his sister-in-law turned lover found in his vehicle and threw into the garbage. Yes, in this instance it was the son and not the man himself, but still - WHOOPS!
Our Great Nation will certainly get a leader that it deserves. The carnival barker or the washed up icon. Tells it as it is, as some supreme virtue, or the veneer of respectability, unclear what lies beneath. Shouting or stumbling, always blustering, hand out for your vote. And you, my fellow citizen, you must watch from afar, absolutely enthralled, absolutely enraptured, and you must choose a side in this Great Contest. And then you, my fellow citizen, you must rise up tomorrow morning and brush your teeth and take a shit and go to work. We need you, my fellow citizen, to turn off that passion as soon as the Great Contest is done, and we need you to toil with your head down so you’re not tempted to look around and see us profiting from the sweat on your brow. No, do not worry about that. That’s just the cost of doing business, or whatever platitude you prefer. The Great Contest is over and platitudes are all we have to offer, so keep your head down, your feet forward, and make sure you pay the taxman when he comes around. Save that passion for when we’re back in four years my friend. We certainly don’t want the likes of you getting any ideas now.
And then we have our current President, a man who inspires no depth of feeling, a seemingly decent man as far as politicians go, despite certain inconvenient opinions and actions from the past like support for a very red-blooded crime bill or the magic trick that was the invasion of Iraq, watch this hand not the other, a man who has undeniably become an old man, teetering about with a wavering voice, flashing a smile in a poorly understood mischievous moment. He’s a man who may have done Great Things in his day, and so he is well-liked, or at least liked enough, but as he wanders about the backyard grill and chill telling the same war story for the eighth time, he is offered a seat; it is suggested he sit inside in the air conditioning; “Why don’t you come sit over here with Nancy?” and the other guests smile no teeth quiet sympathy as he saunters off to the sidelines to rest. “He’s a good man,” they say, but no one offers to let him run the grill, and someone may offer to drive him home. It’s been getting harder for him to see at night, so it’s probably not the safest thing to let him out on the roads. The guests generally agree on this point, but in this scenario, that quiet nodding agreement is followed with another question, something casual along the lines of, “Sir, do we have the go-ahead to strike the sensitive target with hellfire missiles? Rain down fire and fury, turn the land into a hellscape, an inferno of death and destruction? Civilian casualties can’t be entirely avoided and there is the risk of subsequent escalation into open warfare, but…” But at least he is off the roads at night, and they can feel good about that. We must also note, this President’s son was just freshly convicted as a felon in a court of law for a series of rather mundane charges surrounding a very non-mundane crack binge during which he purchased a gun that his sister-in-law turned lover found in his vehicle and threw into the garbage. Yes, in this instance it was the son and not the man himself, but still - WHOOPS!
Our Great Nation will certainly get a leader that it deserves. The carnival barker or the washed up icon. Tells it as it is, as some supreme virtue, or the veneer of respectability, unclear what lies beneath. Shouting or stumbling, always blustering, hand out for your vote. And you, my fellow citizen, you must watch from afar, absolutely enthralled, absolutely enraptured, and you must choose a side in this Great Contest. And then you, my fellow citizen, you must rise up tomorrow morning and brush your teeth and take a shit and go to work. We need you, my fellow citizen, to turn off that passion as soon as the Great Contest is done, and we need you to toil with your head down so you’re not tempted to look around and see us profiting from the sweat on your brow. No, do not worry about that. That’s just the cost of doing business, or whatever platitude you prefer. The Great Contest is over and platitudes are all we have to offer, so keep your head down, your feet forward, and make sure you pay the taxman when he comes around. Save that passion for when we’re back in four years my friend. We certainly don’t want the likes of you getting any ideas now.