Nuke alarms, presidents shrieking SIEG! HEIL! in rallies and in the loo, executive compensation running in excess of the GDP of most developed countries, the nation’s elections and president controlled by a fleabag, failed empire’s racketeer-in-chief, the complete shithouse of the AMERICA!n experience in the late 20th and early 21st Century can be wrapped up in one quick declarative assertion within the capacity of the current president to articulate:

DONNIE! MAKE! MOO!

As the news broke, the news that wasn’t news, the news everyone already knew, the news that dog bites man, CNN’s White House correspondent walked up to the camera and delivered it to the nation as gravely as Cronkite announcing Dallas.

“I think, Wolf, what we have to come to grips with, and I almost have to think back to the day we were at Trump Tower, when the President was commenting on Charlottesville, and he was saying that there were very fine people on both sides, saying that there were very fine people among the white supremacists and the Nazis, is that the President of the United States just seems to have a problem here, Wolf, in this area. And we can tiptoe around it, we can dance around it, and not really put our finger on it, but the President seems to harbor racist feelings about people of color. From other parts of the world.”

The flash, apparently official: President Trump is racist.

No shithole, Sherlock.

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Did we actually have a week off from him?

We think we did. Pretty sure, come to think of it. That week between the holidays, when he wasn’t incessantly demanding our attention.

Felt great! And man, did we pay for it when he got back.

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We grew up in a time of great dystopian movies. Beginning with Dr. Strangelove and ending around Brazil, there’s a twenty-year run of gloom that perfectly syncs with our formative years. We may joke about still waiting for flying cars, but the future we anticipated was found in the theater, not in cartoons.

The wallpaper of our childhood was Vietnam and Nixon; gas shortages taught us that conditions could turn on a dime. Speaking of which, comic books cost twelve cents when we started buying them; they were a quarter when we stopped paying attention.

And yet we never felt as hopeless as we do today.

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It started innocently enough. A week ago, after bewailing the state of Our Exceptional Republic, we felt like zoning out on some fine filmed entertainment offered by our preferred streaming service. Maybe one of those comic-book movies we hadn’t gotten to watching yet?

We didn’t get very far.

The opening credits were one of the most joyous things we’ve seen since the Snoopy Dance — and we first saw the Snoopy Dance fifty years ago. The face was total bliss, the body (trunk?) a mass of expression.

We had to stop. And play it again. And again. And again.

We’ve been playing it again all week.

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So twisted, so insane, so completely incomprehensible you’ll have to admit Omarosa is the most important political operative in the history of the White House.

It gets weird by 4:10.

By 6:46, it’s so disturbingly demented you know that America has been robbed of an immensely important comic opportunity.

Omarosa should have been the White House press secretary during the Trump administration, however long it endures, or America survives. She is the only possibility for a press minister who could do any justice to TRUMPLIGULA!’s surrealist pronouncements.

#politics