An Exhaustion Gazing Backwards

He believes his munificent self is an expanding lavish thought in the mind of God. Soaking in a viscous torpor, he speaks of his reign of lurid posturing in triumphalist, halting, puerile, farcical terms. His senescence teeters on a thin wedge of cirrhosis and collapse. Seeking the luster of a monarch, his slurping blather pronounces his genius and rock-solid stability. With clarion chimes, he struts into a chamber of obsequious, ass-licking, blundering, servile, unctuous, unfathomable sycophants. At yet another, still lower level, in a torrential cascade of perseverating bullshit, his tweets flood the collective sensorium of his maniacal, craven, groveling minions. With a ghastly and porcine countenance, he cleaves gaseous oily paths to his sacrosanct profit motive...his precious, predatory, and inexorable profit motive. So...After a year of suffering this lethal fool, what must be done? How to engage, and render flaccid, his vituperative, arsenic-laced, scabrous, juvenile bombast...his sordid and mundane indulgences...his rapacious and blind grasping. The task is akin to attempting to tie a bell around Typhoid Mary's neck, no doubt. Nonetheless, failure to curb the madness will imperil--and possibly obliterate--the world...to top it all off. Lurching from pillar to post while pushing water uphill with a fork, collecting snowflakes with a heated sieve, escaping Alcatraz by way of inner tubes...Such prospects seem, in despairing moments, more likely to meet with success than delousing our political, economic, and cultural spheres. But, carry on we must. Frank Gillette / East Hampton, New York