How I Found Optimism Through Fear And Loathing Surrounding Donald Trump

How I Found Optimism Through Fear And Loathing Surrounding Donald Trump
by M. Dennis Paul, PhD

It was inevitable.. yes, I said inevitable (and I knew it months ago) that a bullish, under educated spoiled slob son of generations of racism, greed and sexism would rise from the bottom feeding ocean depths to bask in the plain old spittle from blathering mouths of mental and moral degenerates populating the pusillanimous states of ‘murica. It could easily have been the daughter, cheap slut of the entitled, in vulgar pantsuits but arrogance masked in expensive eau de toilette (called “skunk” in her favourite state of Israel) was less palatable to the cretinous masses than plain old Uppercrust, NY flatulence.

It mattered not what semblance of distinction one might foolishly toss out to pacify a falsely perceived superiority of one candidate over the other. What was pissed into the foul wind of politics was nothing trenchant at all. From the streets to the lofts of the ceaselessly cawing main stream pigeons to the towers of power bathed in the whitest of detritus came the howls of the criminally and undeniably insane. And ‘murica, ever hungry for semi-edible crap from a preferable coloured bag, lined up with grateful spoons and napkins. Tweedle Dee was a fat slobbering caricature and Tweedle dumb no different.

The reality… the sorry state of reality… is that “murica long ago surrendered any intelligence it might have gained in history when it allowed Civics to be turned into a pile of festering goo.

Brush away the flies and every 4 years ‘murica convinces itself that dung ball “A” is somehow more preferable than dung ball “B” or vice versa and dutifully performs its beetle task of attempting to push one or the other up the steaming heap. It mattered not to ‘murica that both emanated from the same corruption spewing bowels of JP Morgan, Citi Corp, Wells Fargo and all the rest of the beasts, foul and sinister, splashing their tails in their illustrious mire. What mattered most was the colour of the bag they would get to gorge from over the ensuing four years and endlessly lamenting that if you voted not for their colour you necessarily voted for the other… even if you were remarkably one of the few too smart to vote. And let’s face it, Bernie was just a coin purse of anal seepage… sufficient only to lure hungered straying sheep to the inevitable dip.

The modern history of ‘murica is a slow march to the right and a wobble to the left every four or eight years. Like drunken sailors whose minds are edging a syphilitic apocalypse, the scent of putrid meat in a bun, on a stick or in high heels and fishnets guides them from one side of the murky alley toward the other. Too, a preference for neon hues of red or blue influence the zig and wobble. Confusing when a Pabst sign offers both.

So… just where in hell is the optimism I’ve found?

Having lived through the fear and loathing of the Nixon years (and having, along with Groucho Marx, been arrested for supposedly threatening the life of that glorious wine drenched beast) I learned that the greatest motivator of rebellion… taking to the streets and the barricades… comes from that soul crying urge to thrust an upward finger in the face of that person you both loath and admire… that person who by his very existence on the planet he so salaciously destroys brings out your inner desire to fight.. and fight unflinchingly to the death… ripping the flesh from his bones and grinding those bones into a fine paste to mix with the rich tones of your palate for texture in painting a different future. Such inspiration comes to a lifetime rarely to the degree it now does. At least for me, had the patri-idiotic dung beetles successfully pushed Hillary to the top of the heap, I might be equally disposed to the sounds of the grist mill. I did, however, secretly hope that Trump would perch on top of the excreta of DC. Perhaps a bit perverse but I admit to wanting that lasting glimpse of Hillary and the Klinton Klan eating a dish of “fuck you”. Long deserved, that dish,

I’m old now, and likely in the way, but for the last 18 months I’ve had a Geritol rush where emerged a jubilant “YIPPIE!” and an urge to once again commandeer the corporate soda trucks on the National Mall and levitate the Pentagon. Deep in my rotting bones I feel a world rising from its very recent mistakes of cowardly turning toward the indefensibly stupid nationalist right. I sense the youth (not that wasted generation that rode the “screw you… I’m a be rich” limo straight to Wall Street from college) that tried an experiment with Occupy and the Black Lives Matter movement, the remaining human section of the planet still capable of human thought, slowly waking up from the Bernie burn and realizing trenches need to be dug, barricades erected and a better than the ’60’s revolution brought to the fore.

In the ’60’s and ’70’s, we stopped the draft and we forced the end of a sick, depraved war but then we set about to have babies, took jobs we mostly hated after the country was saturated with candlemakers and our bellbottoms were too tattered to use as polish cloths for our mid-size and ridiculously compact cars, and neglected to continue the fight so we reaped a net loss by having a zig and a zag to a depressing economy that steered our kids toward enlisting and fighting more sick, depraved wars which lead to a false economy that ushered in greed which lead to crash that lead to a dark-faced massa which has now zagged to a vile smelling beast from the intestines of the devil himself.

You just have to believe we’ve learned something opening our eyes to the reality of the White Whitehouse of Trump. If not, we remain a nation of cloned self-flagellating pinheads walking in ever decreasing circles.

Another bit of optimism equally as dark as the above is the reality that our economy is cyclical and roughly every seven years the masters concoct a taking (prior to Bill Clinton, these takings were farther apart) based on the expected diminishing of ability to fool a group of degenerate gamblers that the Ponzi scheme is working, intact, sustaining. The next crash .. the next taking destined to reduce pensions and savings of deluded quill eaters and force greater foreclosures, pain and suffering for the thread hanging middling class… will happen on Donald’s watch.

Already foreclosures are on the rise, defaults are growing, bankruptcies increasing, Obama, with his much touted and ludicrously manipulated job-creation knew it was only a matter of time before 30hr a week “employment” in sub wage box stores, fast food drive-throughs and temp positions of standing on one’s head waste deep in hapless mediocrity lead to the return of the problems he had no intention of ever repairing. Bill Clinton showed him how to snow a nation and Obama learned to ski.

Trump, who knows everything about running businesses into the ground, will hasten the fall as the GOP monkeys of doom in their $5k suits with “I took an intern’s cherry” tie clasps and matching cufflinks cheer him on. They will benefit from the insider scoops and take away as much as their grubby little hands can carry, order up another bailout of Wall Street.. only this time the banks will use their new weapon of taking directly from the checking and saving accounts of the innocents, and the illusion will be reconstructed for about 7 more years once the “engines” are primed and running. When Trump declares the US bankrupt, at a lavish dinner for all his golden parachute friends, the real class war will begin, The barricades will erupt, the trenches sunk and the youth will lead their parents against the bloated and belching caviar crowd. Or not. Self-flagellation, to some, is sexy.

But I’m an optimist. I can smell the gunpowder.

 

** M. Dennis Paul, PhD is a ’60’s radical who wrote under many names in a number of Underground newspapers on both coasts, played with the YIPPIES!, worked with the Black Panther Party & WU as well as others, worked, directed and performed at the infamous Farenheit 451 Bookstore, performed at and directed the Laguna Beach Summer Poetry Festival, ran a concert/nightclub security service eventually moving to a private Counseling & Mediation practice all the while doing things he cannot discuss (so don’t ask). A former writer for several web publications including the Salem-News, he is now retired but still gets urges to rumble in the streets and occasionally update his blog, rebel.lio. , maintain Stanley Cohen’s blog, Caged But Undaunted , contribute to Uprooted Palestinians‘ blog & maintain artist/writer Joni Sarah White’s website “WE THE PEOPLE”