Welcome to the Moment of Truth: the thirst that is the drink.
In the fall of 1945, the United Nations began pursuing its often-failed mission of preventing armed conflict and aiding economic development in regions impoverished by earlier colonialism. It was a noble effort, and, despite its shortcomings – often blamed on the organization itself rather than the intransigence and bad faith of its members – it has in fact contributed to preventing a third World War, or at least to providing, during the low rumble of constant global warfare, an institution where diplomatic alternatives to violence can at least be entertained. One can only assume it’s better than nothing.
However, rather than welcome participation in a forum for discussing international affairs among the actual participants, some in the USA have viewed the United Nations as a kind of global government usurping the sovereignty of the world’s most active military power. It’s similar to the way Brexiteers kvetch about the EU over in England. Anything remotely unifying, that might challenge the hegemony of the dominant economic interests, is some kind of “committee” that will, by definition, design a failed animal. Unions, consumer-interest groups, boycotts, marches, climate conventions, diplomatic gatherings of nations – they’re all threatening to the iron fist of the world’s policeman, arms dealer, and number one destabilizer of regions.
Those with power want to remain in power, naturally. And part of power is appeasing the people, which requires concessions. But, as the powerful become greedier and more conservative, as the neoliberal consensus has taken greater hold among them, the concessions they’re willing to make in order to appear democratic are dwindling. It’s part of a trend.
Now, the Democratic primary season has just kicked off. The Democrat National Committee are looking for a savior. Who can excite people enough to get them on board against Donald Dump, but not get them so excited that the Democrats end up having to deliver actual change? If they go with someone like Biden, and he wins, and then does the same Democratic right-of-middle- of-the-road betrayal that Bill Clinton pioneered with his triangulation, then won’t the irate, put- upon classes make the Dems pay four years later, maybe even allowing Dump back into power.
No, the DNC reasons. If we can get the people to choose Biden, it will mean their expectations have been gently, gradually, deflated so low that they can only be pleasantly surprised by any crumbs that are thrown their way.
But if a candidate promising transformation gets in and can’t deliver on the transformative promises, the masses will suffer actual grief, and deliver the feared backlash. You can feel betrayed by having your dreams dashed, but not by having your low expectations dropped on a dirty floor from a height of only a few inches.
The DNC doesn’t believe in dreams. Right now their big fear is a Bernie win. With Biden pooping the sheets in Iowa, all their anxiety will be focused, as so much white US anxiety is habitually concentrated, on the socialist Jew.
Who can save them, if not Sloppy Joe? Sloppy, woman-sniffing, language tangling, limp-waffle Joe.
Well, there is one superhero they’ve been in touch with lately. Really a cross between a superhero and a supervillain. His name is:
Bol-Ton! Bol-Ton! Bol-Ton! John Bol-Ton!
They’ve been seeking his help to destroy Donald Dump for a while now. But the impeachment process has gone as far as it can go. The primaries, on the other hand, have only just begun.
I’ve been listening to a folklore podcast called Bone and Sickle. Of course, I recommend it. It was there I learned the legend of the Cockatrice, related to the fabled Basilisk.
The cockatrice is a two-legged chicken dragon that has an absurd crest on its head. It spits poison. It’s fatal to look at, but if you show it its own image in a mirror, it will die. If you hadn’t already guessed, Donald Dump is a cockatrice.
Dump loves to look in the mirror, but he really doesn’t like to see himself. Not for real. Any reflection of his true nature gets turned into projection outwards. You can tell what he hates in himself by the names he calls others: Sleepy, Fatty, Crazy, Farty, Ugly, Stupid, Crooked, Stinky – his body is such a chimerical sack of lumpiness because of all that’s crammed into it. He’s like 330 pounds of Seven Dwarves of crap stuffed into a five-pound bag. That wacky crest on top, a cockscomb, like on top of a cock. A cock, I say, a cock.
They say the cockatrice’s natural enemy is the weasel. If you can’t find someone to cover himself with mirrors, siccing a weasel on the cockatrice is really your only option. You need a weasel if you’re going to defeat Donald Dump, the cockatrice.
Again, we are brought back to the conclusion: Bol-Ton! Bol-Ton!
Bol-Ton is a weasel! Bol-Ton will save us! He wrote a book, like so many others, telling everyone for the dumpteenth time what a pain in the ass it is to work for Donald Dump!
Sure, Bol-Ton is an avowed enemy of the United Nations, and of every nation except his own. Sure, he’s a rabid jingoistic reactionary prepared to plunge any region into war. Yes, he has the mustache of ad spokesman for oatmeal and synthetic lemonade Wilfred Brimley, who was fatally stomped to death by Tom Cruise in the movie, The Firm. But he’s no grandfatherly figure, not Bol-Ton. He wrote a book!
If you think about it, the DNC has a point. Half the country thinks the Dems are Republican Lite anyway. And many Democrats wish they could be as carefree as Republicans, just let their hair down and say what they’re feeling about the low rent teachers and other working slobs whom they’re always trying to cajole to vote for them. Shout out that, yes, black people get harassed by the cops more than they should, but maybe if they didn’t always hang around with such a bad crowd, y’know, like other black people, they wouldn’t find themselves in trouble with the law so often! And just ask Ellen, if non-binary people would just act normal, maybe straight people would let them alone! And, sure, everyone wants to end homelessness, but, I mean, have you met the homeless? If you have, you can understand why no one wants to give them a job, right? And, Medicare For All, well, sure, I’m for it cuz I have to say I am because some loudmouthed Jew pulled the party to the left, thanks a lot, but, y’know, if you can’t afford to get sick you could at least make an effort to take decent care of yourself. Have you seen the crap poor people eat?
So why not run a reactionary weasel with the facial hair of a trampled sugar-water salesman? You were ready to have him testify to the Senate, though Satan only knows what he might have said, I, personally, never trusted the guy as far as a diplomat could throw him. A Vietnam War apologist who blamed defeat on the anti-war movement, of course. His best efforts to avoid fighting in that war paid off with four-and-a-half months training in Louisiana – yet another chickenhawk hypocrite. His mentor was Senator Jesse Helms, white supremacist and rabid anti- communist. Bol-Ton helped torpedo an international treaty against biological weapons, and undermined diplomatic attempts to stop the spread of nuclear material. Yet he loves to sound the false alarm about other countries having weapons they don’t have. I guess fighting arms control efforts helps make his lies a little more plausible. He said Cuba had Weapons of Mass Destruction. He peddled the lie that Iraq had procured yellow cake uranium. Rich Lowry of the National Review, Bol-Ton’s personal friend, says that if Bol-Ton has one fault, it’s that he’s too willing to tell the truth. I guess lying about countries because he wants the US to invade them is a just a way to break up the monotony of being super-honest. Bol-Ton opposes the International Criminal Court, naturally. The way bad drivers hate traffic court.
This is Bol-Ton! Bol-Ton! Bol-Ton! Just the candidate the DNC’s been looking for. It’s too late to run him in Iowa, but maybe they can throw some of the money they might otherwise spend on poorly-designed caucus apps his way and get him started in New Hampshire.
Bol-Ton, the weasel. Legend says that when the weasel kills the cockatrice, the weasel himself also dies. Maybe he really is the perfect candidate. Would that other presidential candidates would so obliging self-destruct. If only we could pit them all against each other. Then we could just sweep the ashes away.
This has been the Moment of Truth. Good day!