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The man in the ill-fitting suit stopped by on Friday. Reeking of stale gin and wiping bar room salt from his lips he tried to convince us once again that the sun rises in the west, that gravity is merely a concept, and that he should lead the world. He failed on all accounts.
Speaking with a braggadocio that comes straight from the bottom of the bottle, he screamed and shouted and snorted his vision for the next millennium. As mothers clutched their crying children, he wiped his feet on the Constitution and told us all that the bars that hold us in are for our protection, not our enslavement. As the anger welled and the volume ramped skyward, he told a stunned nation that the next great reign was on the horizon, and how dare us stand in its way. Spewing bile and hatred on anyone who found him wanting, he professed ignorance as a virtue and blind faith as a cause. Answering no questions but bellowing no answers, he stood onstage as The Last Angry Man, trying to convince us all that bombast beats brains when it comes to leadership. The results, as always, are predictable.
He speaks to the faithful with no regard for the unsure. He prays for the unborn while the young serve as cannon fodder for his warped vision of the next New World Order. He stares at frozen embryos while scientists beg for the chance to save lives, all the while couching his pandering to the zealots as an “ethical dilemma.” He stares off into some dimension known only to himself when someone asks him of mistakes, and as America bathes in dirty water he professes his love for the earth. The ability to lie at will is working overtime.
Here, in the heart of the Midwest, the man in the ill-fitting suit tries to make his case. Acting on orders from on high he tics and blinks and flinches and fidgets, all the while trying to contain his disdain for those who question. Wired for sound and drugged for stability, he nevertheless is unable to control the rage, lashing out at the man whose only crime was reading a question. Frozen in time, it is the snapshot that speaks what many already knew, and what many more now cringe at. “It is true”, they say, “he does not listen”.
When it ends, the man in the ill-fitting suit leaves the stage quickly, for there are fingers of bourbon and peanuts and slaps on the back awaiting him. The true believers convince themselves that the abyss is nothing more than a steep step down, while the rest of America gets on stage and talks to a man who hears their questions and calms their fears. They talk because they have to, he listens until they finish, and he answers until they know.
As they leave, the song plays in their subconscious. Some are old enough to remember it, some not. Despite the chasms of age and lifestyle, they all know the meaning. History repeats itself, they say, but not this time. Hell no, not this time.
“America, we need you now, we can’t fight alone against the monster…”
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