When the workers who voted that the boss run the shop finally realize there’s no Xmas, beer, or cheap shit on the shelves, only the irritating feeling that there’s been a breaking and entering of their back door, will the alarm be sounded for an inventory, an investigation into all those promises of greatness? The moans and groans will be heard. “I’ve been violated, laid over the logs chopped down to build an inflation free economy. Instead, he built a toll road up my selfish little life.”
Smoke signals will ascend from the reactionary campground. “Orange man tell heap big lies. The wailing will be shrill, with shouts of, “I never voted for him” even though they pulled the lever for death thrice.
The Scumbags will turn their backs on the Chief faster than a quick snake oil change on their American Toyota pickup truck; something you can’t get in China… because it’s too far away… just like normal reason, or a red baseball cap embroidered with one’s ignorance.
Give me back my bullets, my Mapo, my plastic paradise, my stupid little life!
Reason being: we dislike everyone except ourselves, who we actually despise.
We just wanted to make America a fake news story about a glorious past; not a giant hole to ease the anxiety of our steaming pile of a life. To tell the truth we only wanted to laugh at all those transgender weirdos, slap our knees as we watched them round up illegal people and send them off to illegal Latin American prisons, simply to put egg on the face of those smug liberals crying about healthcare, global warming, all those socialist, communist dim bulbs.
“Mr. President had promised us fly paper, but he made us fly food.”
When they erect the scaffolds for your favorite President, will they deny that they were the same people who tried to pull down the curtains on democracy in the recent past? Will they change colors, singing a new song about their same old cruelty? Not likely.
Time to hang the boss. They’ll be cancelling his reality TV show as its ratings have sunk through the floor of their thick skulls.
Will the great leader pardon the mob while standing on the scaffold of truth? Perhaps he can give them all a personal bitcoin, or a pair of gold-plated sneakers. Greasing the palms of fellow scumbags has always worked in the past, but the future doesn’t look like everything he envisioned, suffocating under the weight of his own creation, the fabulist ritual of being a blowhard with no cards. The Emperor will be in the barrel, all six-foot-three inches and 215 pounds of his magnificently chiseled physique of pure lard.
After all the blow jobs given to Putin, all the knives stuck in the backs of our friends, will sanity rule, can America weather the storm of self-destruction? To quote the architect of skyscrapers constructed from bologna, “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”