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

One of the most useful passages we’ve read in philosophy is Wittgenstein’s “The World As I Found It”. Crafted as a response to Descartes, it is a brief exercise in identifying consciousness — what I see, what I sense, the parts of my body subject to my control — and ends, not with a brain in a vat, but with consciousness melting into the world itself. The world is my awareness of the world, my experience of it.

You needn’t delve into esoteric philosophy to understand this. Growing up, we enjoyed a sitcom inspired by Thurber cartoons called “My World… and Welcome to It”. Even at age 10, we got the idea.

Another way to understand this is simply your own experience. Your world is your stage, and you are both star and audience. What you know best is what you’ve lived. Anything outside your experience is by nature foreign, exotic, uncertain. You know what you know. What you don’t know might as well not even exist.

And when you’re a white male in America, there’s a lot you don’t know.

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• “Republican Party has sold its soul” (Chicago Tribune, December 7)
• “After the Roy Moore debacle, it’s clear the Republican Party has lost its soul” (Daily News, November 14)
• “The Republican Party needs to search for its soul” (Globe and Mail, August 2)

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Meet Flambargh! TWAK!, skull crushing neomedievalist mass murderer from the planet Rectal 9, soon to be Senate Arms Services Committee Chair..

Roy Moore is only the first mutant freak from hell that TRUMPLIGULA! will herd into the House and Senate to transform the Congress from a deliberative organization to a barnyard of howling freaks and face-eating monsters, mostly from neoconfederate states that have been emboldened by the neonazi ravings of TRUMPLIGULA!.

In fact, as sane human beings are dissuaded from engaging in politics in AMERICA! and the entire enterprise descends into howling madness, the only entrees into congressional races we can expect from here on out are face-eating maniacs, arsonists, mass murderers, cannibals, arsonists,  bestial goat-lapping tweetee rappers and bug-eyed necrophiliacs to MAGA!

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There was a time in our life — we can’t remember when — when it was considered naive to think politicians could be bought.

It wasn’t so simple, we were told, not so obvious. You don’t just hand over a bag of cash and order a vote. No, it was far more subtle — the ability to make a call or walk into an office and command attention, a degree of access unavailable to a mere constituent. You’re buying influence, not action.

And that may have well been the case. Just like it was once the case that MTV played videos. Or that our nation once celebrated what we called “democratic norms”. But whatever world may have existed a generation or two back, it no longer exists today.

You might think folks would notice.

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