At Home with the McConnells

Scene One

Scene opens on a large living room lavishly furnished. The decor is crazy rich Asian, with not one but two glittering chandeliers, gold framed everything that could be rectangularly outlined; windows, mirrors, doorways, bookcases and so on, Louis Quatorze chaises, Persian rugs so vast they piled up at the corners of the inlaid parquet, and spindly-legged tables filled with casually expensive bibelots. In one recessed section of the room the walls narrow into a long corridor complete with a door at its very distant end suggesting an art gallery. The walls are so heavily populated with Fragonard swingers and Bouguereau doe-eyed nymphs it would have resembled one of those rooms in the Louvre dedicated to French Rocco art—yawning and empty—were it not for the fake plaster columns just made for people to gather and whisper behind, like medieval water coolers.

Nevertheless, all of this magnificence is outshone by an ornate fountain that stands in the middle of the room. At its centre stands a marble statue of a horse ridden by a bare chested warrior, who holds aloft a torch from which water gushes, splashing onto a spiral staircase of marble clamshells ending in a wide basin vast enough to accommodate a large number of frolicking Dolce Vitans.. In spite of an architecture that invites one to celebrate life’s gloriousness the fountain’s single inhabitant exudes an air of glum anxiety. Curled up on one of the larger marble clamshells in the middle of the spiral he stares at the basin’s swirling depths, lit underneath by rainbow arc lights, as if it holds the secret to how to end his troubles. This is Mitch McConnell, aka Yertle the Turtle.

A figure draped in fur from head to toe emerges from behind the brocade drapes enveloping the ten foot high windows and strides over to the fountain. It stands quietly, stroking its fur, then folds its arms across its chest. Its growly voice seems to emerge from the bottom of a long tunnel. This is Elaine Chao aka Badger.

Badger: Yertle! Oh goddammit. Now he’s pulled his head into his shell again. This stupid fountain was supposed to be water therapy. (speaks again, louder this time)

Yertle, pull your head out of your shell this instant The protestors have gone. But we have guests tonight. And you’re not dressed yet.

Yertle: (peeking out from his clamshell.). Oh? Iron necktie guests?

Badger: (chuckles) glad you’re taking it so well. I’m afraid so. Big Weasel Len Blavatnik, Little Weasel Andrew Intrater, Big Boar Alexander Shustorovich, Silver Vole Ivanka and lesser vole Jared…

Yertle: Humph! (does a graceful swan dive off his clamshell and does a lap around the fountain before climbing out and facing his wife, dripping.)

Yertle: Badgie this fountain idea was sheer genius. I feel sooo much better after a swim.

Badger: (pats his carapace) Still you should wear the iron necktie. Sorry Yertle.

Yertle: I understand, it’s a withdrawal reflex common to my species that I cannot control. Bring it on, I’m ready. It’s been a long two years and it’s high time for Act Two to commence. (smirks at Badger, who smirks back).

Scene Two

The mahogany dining room table seating forty is this evening set for six. Tureens of crushed ice topped with caviar share space with champagne buckets from which heads of Dom and Clicquot peek out. The players are all swathed in fur typical of their namesakes; Big and Little Weasel’s fur is sleek and burnt umber in color, while Big Boar’s is coarse and bristly. Big Weasel is slathering caviar on thin slices of rye bread. Little Weasel is following suit, while Big Boar, yellow tusks gleaming, is snuffling after the acorn puree specially made for him. A rabbity butler is opening a bottle of Dom Perignon, and Yertle, Badger and the others all have their glasses filled.

Badger: A toast while we wait for the Voles?

Big Boar: A toast to our plan. And Badger, I trust we have time to talk before the Voles arrive? (Badger nods and murmurs, “they’re not due for another hour,” to Big Boar, who nods back).

Horrowshow! To our Leader, and to the Plan!

ALL: Raise their glasses and intone:) Horrowshow! Tp our Leader and to the Plan! (They clink glasses, sip and then sit. )

Big Boar: (Munching on his acorn puree toast) Hah! Is year of the Pig in Chinese calendar. So, my year. Yertle, you are doing great job. Molodyetz!

Yertle: (smirks) We have everything set in place to pull the plug on Unquiet Don.

Big Weasel: I love that joke. (He explains to Badger.) And Quiet Flows the Don is the English translation of the title of the great novel by Sholokhov, Тихий Дон (Teehee Don.) In the novel Don refers to the river, not the unquiet Don your boss. Our Leader loves literary puns. (a note of reverence enters his voice when he utters the words our leader).

Little Weasel: (Nods enthusiastically) Understanding Russian mentality means understanding our culture. Our leader is also influenced by Gogol and Dead Souls. Chichlkov—what a character.

Big Boar: Unquiet Don is another character Gogol would love. It amuses our Leader that Unquiet Don can reveal his fantasy to the American public about kidnapped women with duct tape over their mouths—an obvious reference to his problems with the Nancy—and no one in the eternally glupii American media makes the connection.

Big Weasel: The fool reveals his psychopathology every time he opens his mouth. Build a wall, kidnap women who don’t behave and put duct tape on their mouths to shut them up. But this latest revelation bring us to the question of Unquiet Don’s take-down. and how we accomplish it while maintaining our deep cover. Could his ramblings be referring to a scandal he knows even his Teflon status can’t withstand? Is he hinting he is worried about Silver Vole spilling the beans on some private behaviour?

Big Boar: Such a scandal would certainly distract, once again, from what we are doing. Yertle, how do you assess the situation? Do we play the Siver Vole card now—while the Nancy is undermining his perceived authority? I have to say, gaslighting is my favourite op.

Yertle: (when all eyes turn to him he struggles to withdraw his head into his shoulders. He makes choking noises as his iron necktie prevents him)

Gack! Sorry, it’s my amphibian reflex. You mean—incest? (whispers the word as he struggles again with his reflex)

Big Boar: (Loudly to drown out Yertle’s gacking noises) Yes, let’s use the “I” word. No behaviour is too heinous for this asset. I’ve seen his Kompromat tapes remember. I even wonder sometimes if our leader is willing to sacrifice this pawn sooner rather than later because he finds him so personally loathsome.

Yertle: (vindictively) It’s not going to hurt my feelings to see him go down. The sooner the better. Two years is long enough. I’m in.

Badger: That’s my Yertle.

Big Weasel: (turns to Badger) Will Silver Vole play along? Badger, you are woman, what is your view?

Badger: Oh, she hates him all right. Well, it’s love-hate. But threats to her financial well-being would be enough to turn her.

Little Weasel: Hah! Apple does not fall far from the tree there. Of all the sociopaths in that psychopathically diverse inner circle, she’s the worst. It almost makers you feel sorry for him. But I agree, she is not only the best media distraction, her defection would make him crumble in a Moscow minute.

Big Boar: What about the lesser Vole? Should we worry about him?

Yertle: Jared I am not worried about at all —he is the lesser of two e-voles…

Big Weasel: (Chuckles) Yertle, is reason you get along so well with our Leader. Nu ladna, Agreed then, we enact second part of Plan.

Big Boar: Which is Unquiet Don’s take down, while avoiding too much investigation into pesky investigation. Distraction with scandal is the game to play.

Big Weasel: As usual. The media are so easily played. By the time all the incestuous dirty laundry is aired everyone will have forgotten all about us. And the gullible American will embrace the sinless Sixpence as just the man to clean house. Once again, depravity will bring the capitalist empire down. To depravity, Amerikanskii style! He raises his glass and they all toast.

ALL: To depravity!

Yertle: So, what do I do now?

Big Weasel: I think it’s time we let the Voles know they are on thin ice financially. As are you, my hapless amphibian friend. Let them know we cannot continue to contribute to their well-being without serious cooperation from them.

Scene Three

A rabbity butler announces the arrival of the Voles. The Silver Vole, wrapped in fur the color moonlight, is dazzling. The lesser vole circles her orbit like a dull rock.

Silver Vole: (favours everyone with a glacial smile before she sits) Hello everyone.

Lesser Vole sits after his wife is seated. Badger signals the butler, and rabbity waiters bring out the first course salad. Yertle’s plate is piled high as salad is his absolute favourite, and when he wears the iron collar greens are just about all he can swallow.

Silver Vole: (to the waiter) Hmmm, I informed the kitchen before my arrival of my dietary restrictions. It’s a raw greens week for me so I believe you need to switch my plate with Yertle’s over there. (Yertle’s face falls as his plate is removed and a smaller salad is put in front of him).

Big Boar: How is your father, Silver Vole?

Silver Vole: Les sees him more than I do. How is he, Les?

Lesser Vole (shifty-eyed and scared-looking) Uhhh…pretty unhinged actually.

Silver Vole: Which is why we agreed to meet with you gentlemen tonight. I think I know what you have in mind. And I might be ready to deal. She turns her piercing gaze on Yertle, who has turned a bright shade of green and is choking on a lettuce leaf.

Yertle: (chokes) GAAAACK!

Lesser Vole: (moans) Ohhhh….

Badger: (growls) Yesss…

Big Weasel, Little Weasel and Big Boar stand up and raise their glasses to Silver Vole.

Big Boar: To Silver Vole, whose peerless beauty is outmatched only by her pure evil.

ALL: To Silver Vole!

To be continued….

Finally Asking the Right Questions

Want to know what went on at those tete a tetes between Individual One (US version) and his lushchi droog, (best friend) Individual Odin (Individual One -Russian version) ? So glad you asked. Better late than never— but the hard questions have been left so late it’s no wonder Individual One expects he can continue playing the stonewalling game, which has worked so well for him up until now. Just lately though the ship of state has sprung so many leaks that in spite of his enabler-apparatchiks scurrying around frantically bailing water Individual One is still a little nervous. He’s clamouring for his wall, but he’s really demanding, in metaphorical terms, a Wall that keeps his crimes hidden from view.

Breaking down the pathological projection which informs Individual One’s rhetorical style is pretty easy: 1) Individual One communicates his true intentions by projection—every time he calls out for someone else to be locked up he is tacitly confessing to crimes he knows he should be locked up for, his lying rants are all about how everyone else lies and so on. 2) from his perspective “build a wall protecting our borders” means “build a Wall around me and my crimes so they stay hidden from view.” 3) By the same token “national crisis” means “personal crisis.” The phrase “crisis of the soul” is almost poetic once we understand that the Trump Empire is the soul in crisis. 4) He got close to the real explanation for his Wall frenzy when he projected/ lied about the Obama’s non-existent wall around their house. He can’t compromise on the border wall because it very much threatens his personal Wall—the one keeping the Trump family crimes hidden from view. Breach It and all the information about all the crimes, and my heavens, there’s so many! comes gushing out. What starts as a trickle will end up a flood. 5) From his POV he’s right, he must have that Wall. No matter what. From the perspective of everyone still sane (hopefully we’re still the majority) it’s just as important he not get his Wall. Because…6) What must absolutely stay hidden? Pretty obvious in light of recent activities. The master-puppet relationship between Individual Odin and Individual One explains so much of Individual One’s inexplicable behaviour. Lifting sanctions on Russian oligarch Oleg Deripaska, pulling out of Syria, and now, in his latest desperate move, pulling out of NATO. Let’s hand Europe to Russia shall we?

So many questions begging for answers now. Suppose the final bit of damning evidence, written on a scrap of pastry wrapper and smuggled out of a secret meeting room, sees the light of day? Is Individual Odin escalating his demands because he knows his butt boy’s usefulness is coming to an end? Might he even take preemptive action before Individual One goes from being an asset to a non-performing liability? Maybe the oligarchs are doubting that he’ll be able to deliver the big payoff that will wipe out his debt, and setting the vig so high Individual One is having trouble meeting the payments? Maybe Individual One, who’s played this game many times before, thinks it’s time to pull the plug. He won’t or can’t pay more vig, and as for delivering the big kahuna, he’s running into obstacles. He may be telling himself he’s a master at welching out of a deal and this is just another scrape he’ll bully his way out of. In the meantime scampering in the hamster wheel of his mind is the notion that if he holds fast on the Wall battle he will somehow win the day.

Will he? He still has his fanatical followers, but they’re not his protection. No, it’s his crew, Lindsey Graham, Mitch McConnell, and the other geriatric white males who are ready to go down with their captain. For them too the Wall fight is everything. If Individual One loses that fight it throws into the spotlight so many of his closely held secrets, including the most damning one. His position as capo to the Big Boss in the Kremlin will be revealed, and when that happens his usefulness will surely be over. But what one has to wonder in all this is why it matters so much to his crew—sure, there’s loyalty to the boss (Hitler in the bunker still had his Goebbels, and all the little Goebbels) but when the boss has crashed the ship into the iceberg the sane person runs for a lifeboat. So what gives? Here’s one explanation, a speculative spin of cotton candy based on a true story. The names have been not changed because there are no innocents, and in our post-factual era it no longer matters who accuses whom of what.

Setting: a very large room in an undisclosed location, though occasional blasts of winds and snow buffeting the uncurtained windows suggest it is somewhere in the frozen North. The room contains a large wooden table flanked by three chairs. A samovar sits in the middle of the table, and it is surrounded by tea cups and plates of scones, buns, tea cakes, petits fours and other nibbles. A ceramic stove sits in the corner, burping out an occasional wisp of smoke.

Three figures form a single file at the doorway. First in line is Vladimir Vladimirovich, a slight figure wrapped in a fur coat, fur hat and boots up to his knees. He could pass for Tsar Alexander III, the penultimate Tsar and one of the few Tsars to die in his bed. He was succeeded by Tsar Nicholas, whose reign ended in tears for the Romanovs, and cheers for the masses.

Vladimir Vladimirovich: (removes his coat and hat to reveal a cotton tunic and baggy pants tucked into his knee length boots, muzhik style. He hangs up coat and hat, then goes to the window to stare out at the wintry scene. )

Vlad: Aahhh, beautiful. Winter is my favourite time of year.

Sits down at the head of the table.

Don Fredorovich shuffles in, slams the door behind him, then slumps in one of the chairs.

Don F. Christ it’s fucking cold. Can someone turn up the stove?

A timid knocking comes from outside.

Vlad: Durak! You shut the door on Marina. So very rude you are, Don Fredorovich. (Gets up and opens the door to a small woman wearing nondescript outer wear. She hangs up her coat and hat and stands by the third chair to unpack her briefcase and lay a note pad and two pencil on the table. She holds the empty briefcase up for inspection, and after a nod from Vlad she puts the briefcase outside the door and comes back to the table)..

Marina Gross: Tea, anyone? She pours out tea for Vlad, who fills a plate with tea cakes and amuse-bouches. She looks inquiringly at Don F.

Don F. Do you have coke? and I could do with a burger. Or two. And some french fries. Real food.

Marina fills a plate with pastries, pours herself a cup of tea and sits down.

Vlad: Donny boy. Business first. Eat later. Now, about your repayment schedule…

Don F. I’m behind on the vig because Sergei keeps raising it…

Vlad He keeps raising it because you’re behind on the deliverables. We need sanctions lifted. Where are you with that?

Don F: Ehhh, congress, they’re not playing ball. I got some nice apartments for some of your guys. Really nice. And some beautiful girls as part of the furniture. Mirrors on all the ceilings.

Vlad: (mutters in Russian. Marina does not note it down) Quit diverting, Donald. It works with your public, but it’s not paying the bills. Do you even have any idea how much you’re into our friends for? It’s billions, and now you tell me you need more? Billions, Doony boy. Our friends are losing patience.

Don F. In dollars? So I am a billionaire. Those people who say I exaggerate my net worth are lying.

Vlad: (drinks more tea) That’s how much you owe, not how much you own.

Don F. (Smiles and taps his finger to his nose.) No, I’m smart. I know how to play this game. Oweing is the same as owning in my book.

Vlad: (in an icy tone) Ah. Because you have no intention of paying it back? Better not let our friends hear you say that.

Don F. (looking nervous) Well, I mean, I don’t mean that personally Vlad. You know how much I respect you. I would never ever think of stiffing you. Not ever. I only reserve stiffies for suckers. And women. Which are the same thing, come to think of it. (Chuckles evilly.)

Vlad: Don Fredorovich. When someone stiffs you what do you do about it?

Don F. (smugly) That never happens. I am much too smart. And besides, we teach the rat a lesson he won’t ever forget.

Vlad: Such as…

Don F: Since I was elected President by the biggest popular vote in history…

(Vlad glares at him)

Don F: I mean, since you made it possible for me to occupy the Oral Office…

(Marina raises an eyebrow at Vlad, who nods at her to take down every word, mistakes and all.

Don F: It’s easy. You don’t have to break legs, whack family members, nuthin’ like that. You just say to the politicians something like we’ll sell your elected seat to the nearest gay child molester and they cave like, like little whiney kids when you take away their mothers—I mean their desserts. Speaking of—do you have any Hostess Twinkies? Do you know what they are? I can send over a shipment, you’ll love em. (Grabs a tea cake and pours out a cup of tea.) After you’ve had some real American food you’ll never go back to this stuff, I gotta tell ya. (Drinks, then shudders) No taste.

Vlad: (To Marina in Russian) I’ve had more intelligent conversations with my goldfish.

To Don F: You’ve got that right Don Fredorovich. No taste. Listen Donychka, I don’t know how to make you see the seriousness of the position you are in. We bailed you out countless times, forgave many of your loans and even increased your ability to borrow once we put you in the perfect position to pay us back. Do I need to spell it out? if you don’t step up your RealPolitick payments there will be repercussions. It’s time to start seriously bankrupting your country so you can sell us the assets. For cheap.

Don F: Well, it’s not that easy Vlad. Not everybody likes the idea.

Vlad: We didn’t like it when you did it to us. But what goes around comes around.

Don F. (conciliatory) yeah, well I’ve got my own problems. Don jr—well if he wasn’t my son he’d be flipping burgers.

Vlad: (with a creepy smirk) Instead of flipping agents? He’s remarkably bad at it. But that’s not my problem. Seeing that our friends are satisfied is. They’ve been remarkably patient. But their patience is going to run out if they don’t see some signs of movement from you.

Don F: (turning orange-red and blustering) So what are you going to do to me? Break my fingers?

Vlad: That would be sad. You would not be able to bleat.

Don F:. (Angrily) Tweet. It’s tweet. Have some respect. I’m the President. I’m the Teflon Don. You think you can blackmail me with your lousy pee tape? So I watched whores pee on a bed. So what? It’s no worse than what Obama did when he was there. He slept in that bed that should have been reserved for whites only. And my mother’s dead so you can’t tell her. My base? They love that kind of stuff. I’m their hero.

Vlad: (looks disgusted) Marx was right. The rewards of capitalism go to the most corrupt and depraved, who ultimately destroy the system from within. I don’t have to do anything to ruin you, you are doing a wonderful job all by yourself. But do remember—we’ve got all the promissory notes on you, all the loan documents. We have all your tax returns. We can bury you. And if we have to we will.

Don F: (Holding up his hands in a gesture of defeat) Wait wait Vlad, did I ever say I wasn’t playing along? My god I’m trying. They’re just not giving me what I want. (Pause) If you put the screws on a few key guys it would really help me..

Vlad: If it’s anyone high profile it’s going to raise suspicions.

Don F: You know how to do that stuff. It’s one of the reasons I admire you. Poison gas, I love it. But I don’t mean whack them. Just threaten to. Then they’ll play along no matter how bad it gets. Here, I’ll write a list. (Grabs the pastry wrapper from his tea cake and scribbles on it, then pushes it towards Vlad. )

Vlad: (glances at the list, then pockets it). Okay, we can do this. But if we do, we expect results.

Don F gets out of his chair and reaches over to tries to shake Vlad’s hand, using the two handed powergrab. Vlad evades it by lifting his teacup daintily to his mouth. Don F. shrugs and leaves.

Vlad hands the list to Martina, who is looking stunned.

Vlad: Make ten copies of all your notes and the list before you leave, then bring the originals to me.

Marina: Yes, of course. Uhh, Vladimir Vladimorich? I can’t believe what I just saw. I’ve never questioned my loyalties before but…

Vlad: (Smiles craftily) Yes, and now I’ve got the piece of paper that proves he’s a traitor. You know what you should tell him, Marina, when he comes to his senses and comes crawling back to you wondering whatever happened to the incriminating pastry wrapper?

Marina: No what?

Vlad: Say that Vlad said to tell him this: “let him eat tea cake.” He laughs delightedly at his own joke.

Marina: Vive la revolution.

Vlad: That’s my girl.

The REAL reason—and yes, you can blame the Russians, sort of...

Speculation ran rampant regarding the Orange Durak’s (as he is known to Russians) especially disturbing performance in Paris last weekend. Now, thanks to my Russian background, I feel obligated to offer an explanation that should fill in the missing pieces to the puzzle.

The Orange Debile (as he is referred to by the French) joined other luminaries to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Armistice Day, November 11, 2018. At the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month in 1918, a cease fire signaled an end to the War to End All Wars.

Europeans suffered unfathomable losses, and memories lingered, as they should. People throughout Europe honoured this day and hour with a moment of silence. The centennial brought leaders from all over the world to gather in solidarity to mark the occasion in Paris, including the U.S., also a participant in this first terrible war of the 20th century. No one who lived through it could have anticipated the tragic irony in the name change from the War to End All Wars to World War One.

The Americans entered World War One after staying neutral for the first two years. Now, to be generous, the Orange Dumkopf’s (his German nom-de-plume) failure to attend many of the commemorative ceremonies could be seen as a symbolic gesture. Could it be that the Orange Dotard (his alias gaining mileage across the U.S.) didn’t go the cemetery with the others because America’s losses were on such a small scale compared to European casualties that it might have been a tad churlish to take part in their mourning.

Arriving two hours late for the dinner may have symbolized entering the war after two years of neutrality. As for not attending the inaugural of the Paris Peace Forum—even though everyone who was anyone was there, from BFFs Macron and Merkel to Best Dictators Forever Putin and Erdogan…well, perhaps it was just modesty. Or maybe the Orange—oh, let’s just call him the OD— took offense at the cold shoulder he received from Macron earlier (or more likely it was the snub from Madame Macron, who finds the guy so repulsive she has a really hard time hiding it). But assuming the man has delicate sensibilities au fond, perhaps he simply and politely took a backseat in what was primarily a European tragedy. Fox News, you are welcome to take this interpretation and run with it.

Less friendly OD watchers suggested that he didn’t want his updo to get wet in the rain. Still others hinted that he was sulking, somehow assuming he’d be the center of the festivities (a big parade, a wienie roast etc., etc.). Hmmm, that sounds closer to the truth, but the fact that he also did not visit Arlington National Cemetery in honour of American veterans of soooo many wars suggests there’s more going on.

It’s time to throw out a few observations that may have some bearing on the REAL reason the OD was hiding out abroad and remains in hiding back on his home turf.

The Russians have been working on life-extension treatments for a long time. Their efforts have been enormously successful, yet almost nothing is heard about them. Little wonder, since scientists work on these top-secret programs in an iron cloak of silence, under penalty of death.

International oligarchs and certain politicians are on the receiving end of treatments that extend their lives. (I don’t need to elaborate, you can immediately think of several politicians who have long passed their sell-by dates.)

Yes, the OD owes the Russians more than a lot of money, and they in turn have truckloads of blackmail material on him. Yet, he’s always been a crisis survivor and indeed appears to thrive on crisis. All on a steady diet of MacDonald’s burgers and soda pop. So what’s behind his sudden cowering now? Perhaps this timeline can shed light on the OD’s uncharacteristic behaviour:

OD was not seated next to Putin at what was supposed to be a working lunch. Indication number-one that his erst-while pal is avoiding him.

He cancels his trip to the cemetery because he has more important things to do, namely, arrange for the longevity team to come to his hotel room to administer his usual fix. “I’ll be here all day,” one can hear him say.

He waits in vain for them to show up. They don’t, and he finally leaves for the scheduled dinner, two hours late and feeling under the weather. He scrutinizes the room; unable to locate his chum, he leaves early.

Standing on the platform with the other world leaders he looks grim until he catches sight of his good buddy Vlad. At last! He smiles broadly when pal Putin gives him the thumb’s up. While those not in the know marveled to see the OD with a genuine smile plastered on his face, anyone with a drop of Russian blood in the audience knew what the OD didn’t know—the thumb’s up was the Russian mafia’s kiss of death. It was an amusing moment. We chuckled and felt a moment of national pride as we saw our fearless leader play him like the proverbial cat with a mouse. “I’m going to get my fix?” “Sure you are.” Thumbs up. Smiles all around.

Finally, the day of Macron’s Forum where everyone went to be seen rooting for Peace, the Orange Dunce wasn’t. There, that is. He was on his way home.

Next day, there was no visit to the Arlington National Cemetery, and there was lid on the White House.

Here’s my take—now that the OD has outlived his usefulness and has to manage without his longevity juice, his decades of intemperate living will bite him in the butt. Think the portrait of Dorian Grey times ten. The difference being that Dorian started out beautiful, whereas the OD was always hideous. Now he grows uglier by the minute, and as his cells heat up, he is literally toast. What’s that great old Amerikanskii saying? “Burn, baby, burn.”

Hellsinkie Revisited—yet another fresh hell coming soon

“I think our country sinks beneath the yoke;

It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash

is added to her wounds.”—Macbeth

“Sleep no more—MacTrump has murdered sleep.”—Ada Zee

Okay folks, here’s yet another warning shot off the bow from someone who’s seen the nightmare unfold before. Now that the Supreme Court has been packed, what’s next? The descent to the bottom will be marked by headlines like roadsigns on mountainous roads—for “dangerous curve ahead” or “slippery when wet” read “The dems have allowed Trump to pack the courts with fifteen of his picks so they can go home and campaign,” or “Trump is planning another visit with Putin.”

For those who still dream of a last minute democracy save, it’s time to wake up. Or never mind, Children, just go back to your troubled dreams, it really is too late to save it. Losing the decisive Supreme Court seat, a battle that, like the 2016 election, was for the Dems to lose, was the last hurrah. Let me tell you how it unfolds from here on in.

Operation Takeover: phase one.

Install puppet in rigged election. Take over the three branches of government, administrative, congressional and judicial, with compromised cronies. In the recent Supreme Court nomination battle we saw how Kompromat* directed the actions of key players who decided to throw in their lot with seriously compromised Trump. Phase One, complete.

*Kompromat (compromising material) is so pervasive in Russia we think of ourselves as belonging to a blackmail state. The Supreme Court coup revealed just how deeply blackmail as a style of governance has spread its tentacles into US politics.

Operation Takeover: Phase two



November surprise. The failure of the Dems to win back either the House or the Senate will come as a surprise to no one except the perpetually deluded leftists still mired in dreams of justice, karma and due process. The clueless losers will point out all the ways the free and fair election process failed; voter suppression, disappeared votes, voter machine hacking, miscounts from key districts etc. Greg Palast will report it all, again. Meanwhile the photos of people keeping democracy alive by standing in long lines in the cold and rain in under-served districts will elicit the usual bleats of woe: “I don’t see how it happened!” “The polls all told us a different story!”

Throughout November there will be demands for recounts, investigations into computer hacking, analysis of how gerrymandering destroys representative government, bafflement over lack of unity among women—and on and on, ad nauseam. In the midst of it all Putin’s favourite goon, his long shot who has paid off beyond the oligarchy’s wildest dreams, will again visit his master, this time to get his marching orders.

December. The courts uphold gerrymandering because the Supremes have already voted away review by precedent. In districts where races are contested, the courts, packed by Trump court appointees, will render their verdicts.

In response to increasing chaos martial law may well have to be declared, at least while the courts sort it out. The Supreme Court may weigh in. One casualty of the ushering in of the dictatorship may well be Putin’s here-to-fore most useful idiot. He may grow so unpopular as people realize what they’ve lost that you’d no more name your kid Donald than you’d name him Adolph. With hardly a blip on the social media radar he’ll be replaced by that demon-in-waiting who speaks for the religious right. Almost immediately we will start to miss the old dictator, who was always good for a laugh and at least wasn’t a hypocrite.

What will happen to him? Terms to be discussed at their new meeting, but I expect them to include: 1) installation of the first-ever Presidential Golf Course, probably in Arizona. It will be massive. It will bring jobs. Maintenance of the monstrosity will suck out the last of the water from the Rio Grande and usher in the Sixth Great Extinction. 2) A set of solid gold “magic” golf clubs. When he uses these clubs he always wins, it will be amazing. 3) A private physician to administer the longevity injections that will keep him going into the next two or three decades and even beyond. (The Russians are far ahead of the rest of the world in the life extension department, and also good at keeping it top secret.) Is our Dictator really eating MacDonalds and KFC and swigging down Diet Coke or is that all theatre, just like the rest of his revolting nonsense?

2019 and beyond

The velvet glove has come off the iron fist. Though life in the new theocracy will lack the scandals and endless tweets that characterized the Royalist Days, as they will come to be called, the dull, brutish, bleak and dreary sameness of life under the dictatorship will still have its moments. The citizenry will feel a sense of solidarity as they pull to together to rescue victims of ever more frequent and worsening climate catastrophes. They may enjoy rounding up dissidents or joining in the public re-education of atheists. For rehabilitated intellectuals there will be book burnings to attend, and the hanging in effigy of directors like Michael Moore (who will long since have taken himself off to Canada). Weekly mandatory visits to church will provide comfort, and silence any complaints about how we are deprived of any art, books, theatre or music not authorized by the State.

Beyond the death of democracy and the dissolution of empire, which has happened countless times before, I see something even sadder. Something that occurs over eons rather than centuries of time, as species go extinct and are replaced by competing species. There was a time when Neanderthal and Cro-Magnon lived as neighbours, even interbred. Over time Cro-Magnon took over, replacing Neanderthal. The prevailing narrative is that Cro-Magnon, the first “modern man” was smarter than Neanderthal, and we liked the idea that our ancestors were an example of survival of the fittest. My suspicion is that they weren’t smarter, simply crueler, capable of wiping out neighbouring tribes without turning a hair.

Where are we now? I believe we are looking at the gradual wiping out of Homo sapiens. We are being replaced by a sub-species, Homo sapiens sociopathensis. This new species has every chance of prevailing because they are not, unlike Homo sapiens, burdened with a conscience. Sure, Homo sapiens can win in a fair fight, but they can’t grasp that sociopathensis will always rig the fight to win. Home sapiens lack the requisite cruelty, the consciencelessness, the capacity to think evil, say evil and do evil at every turn that will be required of players in the new world order.

As we bid farewell to the country as we knew it, and a species that has given us much to admire, we can, I suppose, take some comfort in the works of Homo sapiens at its pinnacle of greatness. For example, the sublime Edward DeVere (aka Wm. Shakespeare) created in Macbeth a hero for the 21st century, our first (failed) sociopathensis. Turns out Macbeth didn’t have the stomach for pure evil. It is possible to read in this play both the tragedy of a man and the tragedy of mankind.

Using the words of a Homo sapiens stunningly far ahead of his time, it is fitting that Macbeth says good by for all of us.

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

And then is heard no more. it is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury

Signifying nothing.