Happy Birthday, America?

This was written early in the morning on the Fourth of July in this foul year of Our Lord, 2017, without, I might add, the prodding and cajoling from my Editor who seems to have given up on me.  Maybe he's now with some bandwagon pundit on Fox News like I saw last night, a young pretty white girl-maybe all of twenty-five years old, spewing hatred of Liberals like a seasoned Media Whore.  Or maybe the other guy on the panel, a caricature of a human being, animated like some Disneyland puppet machine in hot Orlando, and goes by only a first name.  Has the sick spectacle of our political nightmare come to this, that pundits now have one-name monikers, are represented by high power agencies, have their own propaganda websites with corporate sponsorships?  Meanwhile on the other side of the schizoid coin the other news network was once again whipping up a frenzy about how close we actually are to bringing down Trump.

Trump.  Let it sink in.  The grifter President.  The star of the most massive, all-consuming Reality TV series ever.  Period.  (Right Spicer?)  He's right, in all his boasting, he is actually right that he is the star of the show.  It's a Reality series that spans all the major networks, the internet, social media, and every minute of every day of all of real Life as well.  This is an Orwellian nightmare only hinted at by earlier Republican administrations.

Trump.  How, in the era of Google, did it slip past everybody that maybe symbolically we shouldn't elect a man whose very name means to win through deceit or by using a secret weapon?  Oh right, the earlier administrations who only hinted at this scenario have been for decades at work brainwashing and devolving the population to the point that a Trump voter base could exist.  That, and the KochBroCo propaganda machine creating the cognitive dissonance to sucker in the smart ones, and of course, the Racists.

Trump's main fuction is to distract us via Twitter while his co-stars do the damge of wiping out everything good Obama, and maybe even Bill Clinton have done.  A pathological liar and master of projection, he creates near perfect confusion if you are trying to make sense of things.  It's best if you don't, apparently.  Ever notice that everything he ever accused Obama and/or Hillary Clinton of, he is actually guilty or under suspicion of.  Every inflammatory gas expulsion he said on the campaign trail comes to pass, and every good thing he promised gets flippantly forgotten.

There's been much said lately about his war with the Press.  He's now battling Morning Joe-who practically fellated him every day during the campaign, and Mikka who dares to be a bleeding woman, and he's posting juvenile videos about superhero Trump pummeling CNN in the wrestling ring. What the fuck is up with his twisted fixation on women and blood? Very Presidential.  Bigly. 

I mentioned my editor earlier, and fuck him too.  I had to just get to the point on my own where I had a quiet Holiday morning to sit down and write, say enough is enough of allowing this pig-fucker to damage my Spirit, and do it.  I am a creative person at my core.  I feel best when I am making things, sounds, ideas.  The long, absurd spectacle of the campaign trail sucked me in like the many multitudes and put my creative output on Life-support.  Then the fucker WON!  Tailspin.  The new plot twists dominate.  Collusion with Russia?  Emoluments?  Multi-million dollar tax dollar funded Golf weekends while pissing off Kim Jong Un--a man Trump ADMIRES!  Twitter storms suggesting dementia and a complete disinterest in how our government actually works--or doesn't.  This all kills my creative motivation, the daily panic of what each new day might bring, anxiety over the planned complete destruction of everything Liberal or Progressive and perhaps inadvertently (or not) of everything wholesome as well.  War? Apocalypse?  Holy Hell!

I realized finally that my creativity is the one thing they had better not fuck with, so I think I'm back.  I have to get moving or I'm dead.  I think I have reached my Lifetime limit for Bullshit.

I wish Hunter Thompson was still here to write about this Shitstorm we're in, but Res Ipsa Loquitur...