Chauncey Gardner and Adolf Hitler Had a Baby

Now enshrined in the Pantheon of brain damaged kings, his effigy is placed hard-by Charles II of Spain, the hapless Hapsburg, whose prognathic jaw juts donald-ward, giant tongue drooling on the Cheeto’s faux-royal loafers. Both are enthroned at the apex of unsuitability, one there by his genetics, the other by his pathology, they blankly gaze into the middle distance and sometimes tantrum when pudding is not forthcoming.

The world’s sympathy is reduced to a trickle. How can the nation responsible for the Marshall Plan and the space program empower such a dunce? Heads shake in confusion and despair. His election should have been instead a landslide victory for anyone, literally anyone opposing him. Yet Caligula’s horse won the race. This psychological case study, this man who mistook his wife for a merkin, should have disappeared without consideration, his only supporters a small murder of yelping, itinerant Nazis, expostulating with garbage cans and collecting shiny objects.

Cocksplat Driving Firetruck
Playing pretend in the Royal Tonka

No inbred, defective potentate from history could have scaled the Everest of fuckwittery as spectacularly as Donald J Trump, for he has had so much help. While the venal fall over themselves to assist, he likes to watch.

The Empire, such as it was, which began its slide when it lost its singular enemy, the USSR, and whose downward spiral was luridly illustrated in the aftermath of 9/11 for anyone awake to the tides of history, has now sensed its own demise. To buy time, the very rich have elevated to Chief Executive a man of jarring incapacity for any job requiring problem solving, analysis, logic, subtlety or cogent communication. An entire society has sunk from occasionally high-minded and led by a charismatic professor, into a war torn rabble fronted, or perhaps confronted by a foaming police dog. His election was a Hail Mary of obfuscation, a delaying tactic in aid of the moneyed slyly abandoning ship, leaving the rest of us to swab the decks of the Marie Celeste. One conjures visions of Goering’s long line of trucks hauling loot and riches to an Alpine hideout. 

Then, a ‘little corporal’ had been allowed to take the reins, the wealthy positive that they could control him while harnessing martial urges in a frustrated, bankrupt, war weary populace. This experiment ended badly. The current scenario, if not ended forthwith, will have an even worse finale. Like fathers, like son.

Vince R Ditrich © 2020 :: All Rights Reserved :: Random Note Generator :: A One-Man Magazine ::