Thanks for the flowers, Tim. I suppose no one exactly expects to randomly fall into a ninety-six-month-long coma—it’s all still a bit disorienting, of course, but the hydrangeas provide a nice little burst of color in this hospital room.
I just caught up with all the news I missed these last eight years, and phew, it certainly sounds like everyone got put through the wringer. What a waking dystopian nightmare—can’t say I’m sad I spent it all on ice. Well, I imagine it at least feels pretty good knowing there’s no way in hell people would fall for that rotten fake billionaire again, right?
… Right?
Okay, now hold on a moment. You’re telling me that barring an act of God, he is once again statistically the only GOP ghoul capable of clinching the Republican nomination? Again? After straight-up losing last time? And, you know, all the crimes and trials and documented corruption and open admissions of guilt?
Wow. You’re telling me in all that time, they couldn’t find a slightly better-packaged, less bloated, more coherent vessel of schizo-fascist malice? There are plenty of other equally horrific fish in the abyssal zone to pick from by now, and he’s still the clear frontrunner by miles? C’mon, you’re just yanking me around, right?
… Right?
Okay, okay. So, his cult of personality really is that solid. Got it. I suppose that tracks. Historically speaking, there’s really no shaking that kind of blind, ravenous ethnopolitical fervor once it takes root. At least the other side surely figured things out after squeaking by with that win. Everyone agrees that the next guy accomplished about as much as could be expected after such national trauma, I assume.
I’m sure there’s only so much he could have done after such an empirically proven disaster of a previous administration, anyway. He re-established at least some small sense of normalcy, and he did so even as it took an obvious mental and physical toll. It’s time for him to cement his presidential legacy as a man who put our national health over pride and vainglory by graciously endorsing a younger, personable, action-oriented candidate. With someone like that, it would be all but impossible not to energize the people against such a crass, nihilistic wannabe strongman’s return, right?
… Right?
Jesus Christ, Tim. I mean, JESUS CHRIST. The two of them are just gonna ramble over one other on national television AGAIN? For MONTHS? And most people are just gonna be like, “Well, what are ya gonna do?” And then we’re gonna go through this psychic clusterfuck we call Election Day, and either:
A. The tiny-handed bigoted monster-man is elected again, and it makes his last term feel like Mother Goddamn Theresa was Madame President, or…
B. The current octogenarian is re-elected, and then the other nearly octogenarian man throws yet another temper tantrum. At which point his brownshirt bro brigade leads another unprecedented coup attempt. Only this time, they do so after having four years to lick their wounds and learn from their mistakes.
God almighty. What in the actual shit, Tim? You know that saying, “Insanity is doing the same over and over but expecting different results”? Well, what do you call it when we do the same thing over and over (that was already insane, mind you) while expecting different results—oh, but also while the planet is melting down? Because it definitely doesn’t seem like you all did much to address that little ticking time bomb while I was comatose, now did you?
And in the midst of all this, no one seriously started talking about a general strike? No one at all? Because it sounds to me, Tim, like it’s as good a time as any for a general strike to end all general strikes. I’m just saying.
Okay, fine. All right. One existential crisis at a time here. So… here we go again, I guess? You got any good news for me?
Kissinger finally ate it? Well, damn, Tim! You should have led with that.
Okay, look. Could you do me a favor, bud? Take that flower vase you brought, raise it over your head, and just smash that sucker down on my skull. With any luck, I’ll wake up again in another eight years. But honestly, I don’t have much confidence that much of humanity will still be around come 2032. And honestly, Tim? Anything sounds better than all this. Even if it’s just me, a bunch of desiccated hydrangeas, and the pretty safe bet that Reality TV Mussolini finally succumbed to his steady diet of well-done steaks and McDoubles. Then again, Kissinger only just kicked the bucket last month at the ripe old age of one hundred, huh? Let me do the math real quick for a second here…
All right, go ahead, Tim. Give me all you got. Really smash my head good with that vase, Tim. I want to sleep through it all until at least 2046.