Mike Golden

- Joy Williams -

The first time all this endless election bullshit started to feel good to me, ironically, was the day of the election itself.  Maybe because I knew, after 18-months of 24-hour-a-day verbal diarrhea coming out of the mindless media magpies and political slime slithering across our topographic state of disbelief, it would be over that night. Maybe because two days earlier I had switched my pick to win, after schizy FBI Director Jim Comey tried to uncommit the treason (by any other name) he committed 12 days earlier, by changing the momentum of the election for the third fucking time, back in the other direction, clearing Hillary’s fucking emails, which, if nothing else, gave me a thin wave of confidence my new pick would be the winner by at least a length and a half down the stretch, by the end of the night. But of course as soon as I thought that, a dark shroud of doubt crept over my internal tout board, and I thought that perhaps my outlook was way too positive to trust, and the only real end in sight was the actual end we’ve all silently been dreading our whole lives.

It got that dark. That quick.  I had obviously changed horses at the end of the stream, instead of in the middle, right after the third bloody-nasty Hillary-Trump debate. Four months earlier, I had literally plucked the blowhard pathological lying billionaire out of the boring Republican mosh pit, not because I personally liked anything about him particularly, but because Fragmerica had such a hard-on for celebrity that he had this built-in advantage of being beamed into their homes so often and for so long, he was like their estranged rich Dutch Uncle-Godfather, who, despite every public asshole aspect they knew about him and couldn’t stand, deep in their unconscious there was almost a romantic belief that one day he might leave them something of value in his will, because after all, if he was not exactly family to them, their shared interest in lowball culture, from supermarket tabloid conspiracy theories, to sexy-gossipy-rumors about B-television celebrities, to publicly flaunting his ostentatious If I had his kind of money riches, to love for violent sports entertainment like  wrestling-MMA-boxing-football and NASCAR, to regular smut-talks with gossip-gal pal Howard Stern, to his public pursuit of playmates, beauty queens and lingerie models, made him the closest visible 16-degrees of separation approximation any of them had ever had to the one and only John Beresford Tipton, a faceless fictional television billionaire from The Millionaire, a  show that created the most harmful American myth of the 20th Century.  Out of the blue, this mysterious, faceless Howard Hughes-esque benefactor would send his-man-Jeebs (one Michael Anthony) to track you down and save you at the last minute from whatever dire straits were about to destroy your wretched life, by presenting you lucky dog, you, with a tax free check for a million dollars that you could do anything you wanted with, as long as you didn’t rat out the Bear by revealing to anyone where your money came from. If somehow circumstances beyond your control forced you to have to make one of those gigantic major life choices between eternal happiness with the great love of your life (without a dime in your pocket), and being an unhappy, but filthy rich playboy with a harem of Rockettes at your disposal, you’d provide your audience with a perfect little morality play to measure themselves and their lives by.  Relatively speaking, back in the mid ‘50s and early ‘60s (before the JFK whack changed the way we viewed the world), outside Elitesville itself, tv was how mass numbers of Fragmericans, uninterested in anything more highfalutin than the gold, baby, the gold,figured out who they were and what their true core values were, without the stigma of secretly being in therapy to find out.  Television, believe it or not, was as big of a Monster in those far more innocent days as the Internet and Social Media are today. You can take that both in all the positive and negative manifestations, it doesn’t make any difference which side of the coin you’re on, to Trumpsters, as long as it’s coin.

So as much of a stretch as The Millionaire connection might seem to spot-on politicos, pollsters and media magpies, the way-way too long electoral process, that was a such cash crop boondoggle to the once integrity orientated news outlets, illuminated how much the media had sold out their credibility to unbiasedly report the news, and made it much easier for Trumpsters to have nothing but complete contempt for what they said about the traditionally corrupt assortment of 16 ideological flunkies, ghouls and out & out political whores unwittingly acting as Trump’s foils in the so-called race for the Republican nomination. While it would be impossible to call the new blowhard a breath of fresh air, by any stretch of the imagination, compared to the natural pollution of the natural born career hacks in the race, Trump’s outrageous bogusity was not only familiar to his supporters before he stepped into the arena, but his longtime TV persona was a blessed relief to viewers of all persuasions, and even more than normal in his brand new attack orientated, entertaining WWE style - for those who enjoyed watching the scumbag pros at long last being tortured in a manner they not only had never experienced before, but that every one but their pet shills felt they totally deserved. Not only was it great television watching Trump destroy Lyin’ Ted, Little Marco, Low Energy Jeb, and all the rest of them, one after another, but he did it at the same time he was somehow managing to juggle exploiting the innate voter prejudices of the bent out of shape religiosity of Evangelicals and thinly disguised hate groups (riding on pro-patriotic racist hash tags), even as he blatantly exchanged the idea of running on a platform of real issues for running on dramatic wild goose chase MacGuffins, like building his big stupid fucking wall, to subtly assuring the rest of the now awake and enraged (after a lifetime of not giving a shit) yahoos out there that Muslims and illegal Mexican immigrants were even better groups to hate than the old reliable trifecta of blacks, Jews and Commie Queers from outer space. And because this blatant misogynist constantly was rating women’s looks before claiming “No one cares more about women than Trump,” it became one of many hypocritical mantras this sexist pig injected into their malleable unconsciousness.  It was so easy for him to flip the switch on any subject on the board just like that too, and insinuate anything that hit Trumpsters’ hot buttons without even having to actually say it, since the blind-with-facts elites didn’t understand that not only his core supporters, but a big slice of their own, and most of the vaguely interested non-politicos, couldn’t stand the coma-inducing-bullshit the pros always rattled on and on about from both sides of their two faced parties. They didn’t care whether La Donald lied or not, because he, unlike them, was entertainingly inclusive, bringing them in on all his insulting nicknames for his opponents, to the point where they stuck and he could get away with claiming he was their voice, then slowly enlarging that to the voice of the people, eventually changing his Is into wes, like a rock star repeating the hooks in songs that the audience always remembers and unconsciously sings along with, like Eagles fans, for instance, every time they hear Take It Easy on the radio alone, or out in public at a bar or restaurant, they start singing along, either silently, or out loud every time the hooks come in, and not just on the obvious Take It Easy (Crooked Hillary), but as he goes into an intro of a subject like, I was standing on the corner in Winslow, Arizona – they’re all standing and cheering -all the way up to the pop mantra, COME ON BAAAAY-BEEEE, DON’T SAY MAY-BEEEE (We’re going to make America great again), unlikesome constantly above getting down politicalbig shots on the other side, hiding behind reams & reams of hard to check numbers they have the audacity to call facts, when (to Trump anything that comes out of his big mouth is a fact, unless he can’t remember saying it) while all the fucking orthodox pols, like out of place former Maryland governor Martin O’Malley, are redundantly reciting their fucking resumes every time they open their mouths until you want to stuff your dirty socks in there to shut them the fuck up, like, unfortunately Sloppy Hillary unconsciously did almost every time she was interviewed about anything, without somebody on her even sloppier high-priced staff giving her the heads up to knock it off already. Seriously, every time I saw her, whether it was in the debates or being interviewed by Comatose Charlie Rose or Screamin’ Chris Matthews, she would invariably begin talking about how she had started her career and devoted her entire public life to children, no matter what the subject of the conversation was suppose to be about, before eventually the Internet ghouls and conspiracy freaks latched on to it and tied her into the almost impossible to believe child abuse sex scandal known as Pizzagate. That almost was an unspoken part of the Trump attacks on his one time social friend, and led not only to his audacious promise to the Trumpsters, during the second debate to lock up his opponent, if he were elected, a promise that had them chanting every time her name was mentioned, from that point on,to LOCK HER UP!  LOCK HER UP! It was straight out of a mindless high school pep rally turning into a Lord Of The Flies mob right in front of us, as his previously unenthusiastic-about-anything-supporters fucking loved to have him egg them to egg him on.

Communication really had become that Mickey Mouse. And let’s be honest, even without all the false Internet news they were latching on to, it had been that way for a long-long fucking unconscious time, so it was obvious why neither side was ever called on the numbers their candidates incessantly babbled about to block the real issues and put their audiences into comas. No doubt about it, though a lot of the time in the cursed 16’s company made comas seem like a blessed relief, all the pros had been getting away with murder forever. That is, until Trump came along and put their itsy-bitsy-little lies to shame with his LOUDER BIGGER THAN LIFE BLUSTER every time he opened his massive instrument of discombobulation.


Though I’m not a fan of the overly simplistic modern day term haters for anybody who opposes anyone else’s point of view, obviously, there were plenty of haters to go around in Fragmerica’s seemingly never ending electoral process, from the lizard lipped sleazy faux sincerity of lying Ted Cruz, and even worse lying of Abominable Anti-Abortionatrix Carly Fiorina, to the exuberant pandering of little – always looking for a hand out to pay off his college loans - Marco Rubio, along with his political mentor Jeb Bush, whose energy was so low, according to La Donald, he could barely start his motor, and when the original favorite to cop the nomination did, he seemed truly embarrassed to wake up on the wrong side of the family tree he was so proud of at the same time, so he was basically snookered from using his own advantages in the race, because once Trump pointed them out to the voters they instantly became disadvantages. And then there was the asleep at the wheel world famous narcoleptic surgeon Doctor Ben Carson, who sort of became the well loved no-nothing-about-everything pet rock of the pack, and the compromised Bridgegate tough guy and over-stuffed Sopranos reject, the governor of dirty Jersey itself, Chris Crisco. Senator Rand Paul stood out as out of place between his out date punk cut, his principles and this crowd of thugs claiming to represent the party of Lincoln, while the stale hubris of Huckabee and the rest of the bimbos, who had to debate separately among themselves because they didn’t have poll numbers high enough to get on the bus with the big boys, if nothing else, seemed to think they could always milk the exposure of losing into some sort of cash cow down the line. On the other side of the coin, there was the deceitfully innocent curls of DNC Chairwoman Debbie Wasserman Schultz back-shooting Bernie to make sure Hillary got the nomination. So there was obviously plenty of disdain to go around on both sides of the two-headed ruling Oligarchy; no matter what anybody at MSNBC said, it wasn’t just the mostly-always-wrong Right that deserved piling on. The very thought of siding with the hard core middle-of-the-deal Liberal politicos, working to kill the first genuine grass roots political movement in ages, instead of jumping on the train to glory and riding with Bernie’s kids to the kind of real reform that could potentially (after the pie in the sky was brought back down to Earth) make the overwhelming majority of people in this country’s lives better by growing and evolving the stagnant imposter of Democracy towards its highest self, instead of turning it into a shill for an existing fixed system that continued to promote corporate dominance over the individual, through long term, thinly disguised Feudalism, by any other name (on your credit card). This was the same Feudalism we thought was the system running things in Europe back in the Middle Ages, but clever bugger that it is, it never really went away, it just changed its methodology and name every once in a while, and when it, like all the rest of you one time immigrants, went through Ellis Island, it changed its name to Democracy (and upped the credit limit on your maxed out Freedom Card). Thus, a “feudal society” continued unabated from its original intention, without even a hic-up to give it, or its serfs pause until this election, when the disguise of the system has, or will, become too obvious to deny, even under the flashing STOP & GO dichotomies of democracy, much longer, if things go in the direction they look like they’re going to go in. Like it or not, this might be where, when, what and why it might become too oppressive for simple serfs to keep on keepin’ on serving a potentially new Dark Age Lords & Ladies without the whole thing either exploding, or taking the whole flawed system a rung or two or more down the ladder, to (a hopefully more benevolent form of) slavery, dedicated to serving the 1%.  Since, after all, no one, no matter which side of the filthy two headed coin they think they’re on, will admit wanting to see the urchins in the street mowed down after they’re forced to out-and-out revolt against the horror, the horror of the Oligarchical powers-that-want-to-turn-our-government into a kakistocracy.

Fragmerica,for those of you unfamiliar with the word, much less the concept,is the name the notorious Macaca has for America, because the cat has never seen a less united, more fragmented and divided country in all his nine lives. Although if I really counted all the close calls he told me about having, he might have had a lot closer to 19 lives that he spent wandering from war torn country to war torn country, throughout Eastern Europe (like some kind of junior Jerzy Kosinski), then Asia, the MidEast, and finally South America, looking for a home, until he finally immigrated here from Argentina and became a citizen 10 years after that.  Originally a mixed Croatian-Serbian former I-Go-Yugo soccer prodigy, who escaped by the then hairless skin on his chinny-chin-chin, from behind the Iron Curtain, in order to take the long winding road route into this country as a parentless kid looking to move in with his Uncle Arlo, because the one record his family played over & over while he was growing up was Alice’s Restaurant. He got involved in American politics by emulating walking & talking that long lonesome hard earned folkie path, rambling from almost empty pre-Starbucks coffee houses to even emptier coffee houses while still in college, and then achieving a modicum of notoriety a couple of decades later in 2006, when he was singled out of a crowd at a political rally, and publicly attacked by Republican Senator George Allen of Virginia, while he was unsuccessfully campaigning for re-election. Allen picked him out of a crowd and pointed at him, hollering Hey into his mic at a man with a camera (video-tracking him for his opponent). “Macaca. Or whatever your name is,” the son of the former head coach of the Watergate Redskins, called out to him. And then continued making fun of him while the camera was rolling.  Inadvertently turning him into an Internet Everyman and household name, when the footage. (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r90z0PMnKwI&feature=youtu.be) of the buffoon politician ridiculing the man in the street went viral.


Looking back, it seems we met purely by chance, a few days after the first primary debate - but who knows (since he disappeared, or got disappeared) if he was who he says he was, or it wasn’t a setup all along? When I first started out as a rookie news jock for UPI, in a redneck galaxy light years from Metropolis, Gotham City and the Big Apple, what seems like several lifetimes ago, one of my first field assignments was covering the murder trial of a low rent gang of bank robbers who were charged with killing an FBI informer who had infiltrated their gang. Over a two year period, they’d successfully robbed 24 small town banks in a row, and were starting to build up a John Dillinger-Bonnie & Clyde type rep in newspapers all over the state, before they fucked up and whacked the mole, then left him for dead out in the middle of nowhere. But guess what; the rat wasn’t “full dead” as the kid who found the body pointed out to the cops. He was just “part dead”. And before he actually died, he wrote the leader of the gang’s name in the dirt with the tips of his bloody fingers. Two weeks into the trial, I started getting pressure from outside forces to write positive – how they were framed - stories about the gang, because, as it turned out, my still in law school roommate TC’s girlfriend Donna’s stepfather was in the gang. Or the leader of the gang. Or the lawyer for the gang. Or maybe all three. It was hard to take seriously until they fired a couple of shots into our apartment over a July 4th weekend, insinuating through Donna, if I didn’t start cooperating they’d whack her boyfriend, just to show me they were serious. In less than a week we had a new apartment and he had an old girlfriend he had left behind as his new girlfriend. But the point of the experience that’s never been lost on me was, you can’t ever tell who’s watching you, and for what reasons, until the deal actually goes down.

Generally non-political, I never intended to write more than one article about the freak show election, after watching the first Republican primary debate in early August. To me, once it was done it was done. Then a couple of days after that, when he sat down on the stool next to me in a Hell’s Kitchen dive bar, I barely noticed he was there at all (a ninja trick he said he learned in Special Forces). But after a couple of beers, suddenly, out of the blue, he started talking to me like I was his long lost Father Confessor and he was my messenger from the fickle finger of glory for the sake of glory, as Robert Frank used to call that particular wannabe carrot. Frankly, it all seemed too off-the-wall to be on the up & up. But, to make a long winding road as short and linear as I could under the convoluted circumstances, before I could escape the thickly accented mile-a-minute motor-mouth who’s herky-jerky delivery refused to either let me slip unobtrusively into his rhythms without straining my brain trying to understand him, or simply just letting me drink myself into the void I thought was necessary for transformation to the next level of irrelevance required to make it to the opening night of the NBA season relatively unscathed by the bullshit masquerading as news of the world, he leaned over into my face and confessed the reason he was so upset was that Trump had just fired him as his principal speech writer.

WHOA!  It was as hard to see that one coming as it was to see that gang of murdering bank robbers threatening to off my dear departed roommate TC thru his two-faced girlfriend, much less take this any more seriously than I took that, but once burned on that level, it sure as hell got my attention the next time. And when he started talking about how Trump had contributed so heavily to the campaigns of the other Candidates running against him, that if truth be known, he virtually owned the suckers, I sat up and took more than a casual interest in what he was laying down. And when he began rattling off what sounded to me like amazing insider info on the whole pack of hungry hyenas and horny rat pricks humping their podiums into consensus stupors, I felt myself not only hooked into what he was feeding me, but the entire scope of the horrendous freak show of an election we would continue to witness in disbelief for at least the next four months.

From the moment I first realized Trump was a serious candidate, and wasn’t fucking around, even when he was fucking around – like he couldn’t make up his mind whether he wanted the fucking job or not - I sensed he was going to win, and began fighting off the dark vibes I felt by trying to create an alternative universe to write about him from, to avoid falling totally into the dark pit of cynical woe-is-me, woe-is-me, what are we going to do if he wins? We’re DOOMED, DOOMED, doomed to the lowest common denominator of a government that would be run by the country’s stupidest, most vile, least qualified, unprincipled kakistos scumbags ever put together into one cabal, to rape, pillage and disembowel the mirage of Democracy one final time . . .unless. . . unless. . . something outside the shallow materialistic plain could shift this self-centered narcissistic asshole and drive him to reach his highest possible potential, by taking the best part of his character, the part not listed in the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, and use that part to build the lead character in, say a film sequel (not remake) of the classic It’s A Wonderful Life. Don’t laugh, this isn’t a joke, and until definitively proven wrong, I believe is an option worth pursuing, since after dozens and dozens of attempts to make it, they’ve never been able to get the right script.My idea was to change Trump from the spoiled, selfish rat bastard he’d been his whole life into a mock George Bailey, the wonderful distraught protagonist in Frank Capra’s 1946 original heartwarming Christmas classic, who is so depressed by the life he’s lived that he wishes he had never been born. Played by James Stewart, George was a man who realized that he had given up his own dreams in order to help other people, and when he looked back at his life he realized it had all been a waste of time and he has blown it BIG TIME. Being an honorable man, he saw no other option but to jump. That’s when his Guardian Angel shows up and talks him down off the snow covered bridge he’s about to jump off. Then takes him on a tour, to revisit all the people he helped along the way. But since his wish that he had never been born was granted, the help he gave all those people never happened. And without his help, most of the good things in their lives didn’t exist. While Trump, unlike George, was a man who realized that he had given up his own dreams in order to scam other people, and despite his relative penny-ante success at it, he had never pulled of the blockbuster swindle of his dreams, so it was all a fucking waste of time that had backfired on him. He sees that when, in a twist of fate he never expects, he gets elected fucking President of Fragmerica over the woman he was originally brought in to help get elected, by playing the crazy bad guy running against her (How many writers do you think it took to screw the light bulb in that plot, out on the old Internet Conspiracy Trail, buckaroos?). But now is his chance for redemption from a really-really bad script, right?. Well maybe yes, and maybe no. While the big goon is taking his never ending victory laps around the country, wondering how he is going to stand four years of doing his shit job without killing himself, he realizes how much he enjoys celebrating his surprising victory by sharing how great he is with his witless followers, i.e., how great they are for supporting him, publicly allowing himself to blow himself, like the same-old, same-old  La Donald, so his followers can share in the idolatry he feels for himself, the idolatry they soon will be able feed back to him, when suddenly in the middle of his rote hustle he realizes this is all the fuck he has! Unless he can come up with just the right scam to take these really great people, take these really great stupid beyond belief fools, off, and make them grateful for it at the same time, he is totally FUCKED! This is a conundrum he realizes he’s not going to figure out without divine intervention, which to his credit, he does not believe in; so it’s just not gonna happen, Big Bopper, because it’s not idolatry that has these turkeys worshiping him, it’s fucking e x p e c t a t i o n s. THE FUCKERS WANT SOMETHING FROM HIM! His anger is so sudden, it instantly blows itself out of the top of his head, but fortunately the super glue that holds whatever he’s got up there together, holds, but turns his poor-poor inner self into feeling woe-is-me, woe-is-me, what am I going to do now-sorry for itself. Then as sudden as the great ball of pity begins to drop like the karma of the system annually sells the rubes to count down the time until the new leaf the new President has been promising them actualizes into a reality he doesn’t know how to deliver for the fucking new year. Which is when the poor little billionaire actually wishes that he has never been born. Gulp, Jesus, how the fuck did he get stuck in this masochistic bummer? He must have been framed while he was Tweeting the night away singing You can’t always get what you fucking want, but if you try some time you’ll get FUCKED again!  Who’s kidding who, he could quit if he wanted to, but he doesn’t want to, so he can’t break out of the picture he has in his head of jumping. But if he’s going to fucking do this, he’s going to have to do it with fucking class, which unfortunately is something he doesn’t have, except on the most nouveau riche level of glitz, which just won’t do, so quite naturally he decides to turn the ever popular act of suicide on New Year’s Eve into a colossal impersonal cliché. The idea he has to do it is so pat he won’t feel a fucking thing, but it will drive the suckers so fucking crazy they’ll line up to do it too. It’s just fucking brilliant, he’s so fucking brilliant, but before he can throw his genius off the snow covered top of Trump Tower to his great-great death, thousand and thousands of people down below him on 5th Avenue begin sending waves of love up to him, and begin chanting in unison with all their brainlesshearts, “JUMP! JUMP!” Which is when this hipster Eurotrash guardian angel assigned to him, appears out of a Hollywood nowhere. They stare at each other with such total looks of disbelief we have to FREEZE IT and put it on the fucking poster. Then put the scene of their priceless death negotiations in the trailer. This personalized DON’T JUMP message is the one we’d all like God to send us when we’re on the edge of the fucking ledge ourselves, on one hand, but, but, but on the other hand, there’s always a BUT.  And this one is that the wanker Guardian assigned to stop him from jumping is the polar opposite of George Bailey’s original beloved cuddly Hollywood Clarence, while his fucking Guardian Angel is not there to stop him from jumping, but to support his decision to bond with GERONOMO. He appears right out of another Hollywood Nowhere, then begins negotiating with him to make the world a happier place by JUMPING. Now Trump is not buying. He’s suspicious this fucking immigrant nutso is trying to job him. So sensing the new President’s reticence, his GA takes the opposite approach and talks la Donald down off the tower. Once on he ground, he takes him on a tour of all the poor suckers he’s ripped off along the way, so he can see how they’ve done by themselves in life. Since he never existed, the lucky losers who got ripped off by Trump University and all this other scams never got ripped off either.  So, to put it mildly, one after another of them are doing better, much better than they ever were when he existed. Not that most of them aren’t still struggling and waiting for Michael Anthony to show up with the Bear’s check as their salvation. It’s a hard fucking dream to give up in a tough fucking world like this one. In fact, it’s downright shocking to he who was born with ye old silver spoon in his choppers to see how tough it is for these great brave people willing to put themselves in his hands and let him guide them through Apocalypse.

But I‘ll stop here, for now, before spoiling both the new and old plots for you. First, just in case you never saw the original of this heartwarming classic. Or Second, just in case you don’t want another fucking preview of the end of the world, just in case the sequel doesn’t work, and just in case your left trying to function in this brave new world with another psychic whack on your very shaky human hard drive. The object of the conceit, of course, is to transpose the Trump character we know and are terrified will destroy all life in the galaxy for the next gazillion years, into what a grateful George Bailey would do if we allowed him to serve as our President. If executed correctly by all the magicians and wizards in the Universe, we might just reverse our fear that Trump is The One chosen by the dark forces of avarice and bad taste to own the world, and allow our version of George Bailey to not only save us from those forces, but unite our beloved Fragmerica for the first time – well, actually, ever, if you look back at the rise and fall of past civilizations, which were at the very least, our equals, if not our out and out superiors.


I know, I know, but if any of you out there have got a better idea, short of a National Lottery to see who gets to. . .you know. . .I’m not going to get into it here. Obviously there are still plenty of glitches in the plot, which, I’ll admit, wasn’t quite worked out while I was laying down, the day-by-day of what was happening all through the primaries, and debates. And to be honest, I never thought I’d have to finish it unless he (Trump) was elected in reality.Boy, looking back on that flippant insight sure did make me nauseous then, but after Comey came out October 28rh, 12 days before the election itself, and said he was reopening Hillary’s email case for the second fucking time, I thought for sure Trump had gotten to him and the fix was in. He kept saying the election was rigged because, every time he accused his opponents of the worst impulses possible, he was only talking about himself, became he is only capable of thinking of himself – and pinning it on Hillary Dickery Dock was as easy as flipping a bugger off the tip of his finger back in the second grade, when nobody was looking, so stunning her by his accusations mirroring his own situation was the perfect offense, an offense so good, the only way she could respond was by not saying anything, until he blew himself out with his own rants and mood swings, and proved once and for all to everyone in the country he was mentally unfit to do the job. Of course the more apeshit he got, the more he proved he wasn’t fit, but the more he proved that, the more his Trumpsters backed him up: What the fuck did they care if Trump blew up the world, it wasn’t their world anyway! After Comey’s second act of email terrorism Hillary’s 8-10 point lead in most of the major polls evaporated so fast it virtually threw everyone.  Obviously things were unimaginably bad then, even though it was obvious Hillary had wiped the floor with La Donald in the first debate, let him self destruct into lurking goon from the black Lagoon in the second, and held on to narrowly eke out a close win in the third one. But because of Comey’s seditious interference, it looked like anybody’s ballgame at that point.

On that note, against my better judgment, I must have drank too much of that old underdog empathy Kool Aid for my dear-dear progressive friends, ‘cause I had a strong desire to not only bond with their fear, but to push back against the worst possible scenario that could happen in Fragmerica, when, all of a sudden Comey, this tall whiter shade of pale career spook, with all the subtly of that old Bad Boy Bill Lambeer hacking, whacking and blindsiding Larry Bird, gratefully flip-flopped again on the stupid fucking e-mails two days before the actual election. Though it was probably too late to right the wrong he did, there was at least a shot at pulling through the muck he had created and squeezing through the crack in the corrupt world of politics and reverse at least enough of the damage his first flip-flop caused, so that Hillary could actually slip in and win the election.  Then no one could accuse him of the treason to our election process he had most assuredly committed, wittingly or unwittingly, as the case of Benedict Arnold in the mirror showed him that Mother History would surely treat him. So he made the lame effort to redeem himself at the last minute, which surely deserves a robust. FUCK YOU, COMEY! That’s what history will give him for that pathetic cover his ass move.


No Expectations was still the only logo I could think of that made sense fighting off the existential angst of this tainted d-election. Even though my pick of Trump to win never wavered until two days before the election, I sure as hell never wanted the fuck to win. But it was hard to want Hillary to win either, at least until she had been fucked with so many times she was obviously beneath Mingus’s fabled underdog, and he was pissing all over her. That’s what it took for me to finally accept her in my mind – actually two days before Comey’s last flip-flop; it wasn’t quite like accepting Jesus into my heart, but it beat the hell out of Hitler stuffing Fragmerica’s turkeys with coal, from sea to shining sea. That less than overwhelming declaration of support actually was the first time anything in the election felt the least bit right. Which is what you get when you’ve got two candidates that almost everybody in the country can’t stand. HOW STUPID EVERYONE OF US IN THIS COUNTRY IS FOR ALLOWING THE TWO MONOPLY PARTIES TO MAKE SOMETHING LIKE THIS HAPPEN. It’s hard to quantify, much less qualify how it happened, but it should have been seen as a warning, because where we were at on the day of the election – the only day I felt right about the whole fucking farce was the perfect setup to open our universal selves to the Universe, so it could kick us square in our universal balls.  Which as you know, IT DID!

Call it delirious masochism.  There are a lot of other variations on a theme that make both heroes and heroines stick their heads between their legs and back up their asses before gagging insides themselves, and this is certainly one of them. Why would anybody even want to watch this shit?  Much less participate? Or DO IT FOR A LIVING?  What a shitty job.  But Hillary was born to break down barriers, maybe not as much as Obama did, though I’m not sure that the good things either of them did or tried to do will even be interred with their bones at this point. You fuck up, underrate the competition, and there’s no guarantee you’ll ever get back to the fucking super bowl to redeem yourself. There is no fucking NEXT YEAR to wait for. . .What Hillary may realistically be remembered for as a candidate for the highest office  was her her sloppy-sloppy staff that never told her that most of the world instinctively knows by now that it’s a negative hot button every time a hack politician says they want to do something for children. Anytime they start talking about the children you can bet the ranch they’re lying, and if not, they’re too generically stupid to be taken serious. Not meaning to bludgeon the obvious, but KIDS DON’T FUCKING VOTE!.  Talking about them is like Bubba sucking his own balls while he tells us for the 8-millionth time how he balanced the fucking budget and did not have sex with that woman at the same time, when he was President.  As Trump would say, “Is this a broken record?”

I heard from a guy I know who says he was with Bubba at a party back in his Oxford days, when the joints came out and virtually began flying around the room. When one was handed to Bubba (by my source), he shook his head and handed it right back. “Thank ya’ll, but NO. One day I might run for President, so I’ll have to pass.” My blunt source, who was a born & raised take no shit Bronx connoisseur of the green stuff, felt offense at his contribution to the evolution of the evening being rejected. “What’s wrong with it?” he barked at Bubba.  “Nothin’s wrong with it, Mark. I’m sure, if it comes from you, it’s great shit,. But if I seriously wanna get elected some day, I really can’t inhale. And if I can’t inhale, what kind of asshole would I be to waste somebody’s else’s opportunity to get off on it.” He points his finger at my source. “If we’re gonna change the world one day, man, you know we’ve got to learn how to share it first. That’s the only way we’re gonna save it, much less our own worthless asses” this Southern white boy with built-in ABP (Automatic Black Preacher), laughs at himself, then begins hustling my source for his vote, twenty-something years before he ever actually morphs his inner Eddie Haskell to step outside of himself and run for office.

This seems like about a 3, on a scale of 1-to-10; one being the EUREKA point that the future candidate first realizes they want to grow up to be President one day. Everything that comes after that first realization is purely incremental, building the dream topographically from 1-to-10, into an obsession.  According to another source, this one down in Nashville, Al Gore never wanted to be president, but his mother made him go for it.  Talk about a lose-lose situation. After the Supreme Court so graciously fucked him and got him off the hook, he was almost obligated to find another way to save the world. Whether history ultimately says that he did or he didn’t, the popular movement he fathered in service of the planet should have absolved him of the guilt he felt for allowing the fucking election to be stolen from him. Be that as it may, what I’d really like to hear about now is the first time both La Donald and Hillarygot the EUREKA jolt that told them they not only wanted to be president, but the one where they thought they could pull it off.  I confess, even when Hillary was a gigantic favorite, 20-or so points in front of potty-mouth La Donald, I never felt she was destined to win, but for some completely fucked up reason that has no part at all in logic, I knew Trump was destined to win no matter what he did to make sure he didn’t. I know he publicly talked about running for over 20 years, but coming from him, it always sounded like a pick-up line. He just never seemed like the kind of guy who would ever want to run for anything but supermodels and owning his own NFL team, so the only reason I can think he did it is he probably found out a couple of years ago that he had an incurable fatal disease – two-three years to live, at the most - so what the fuck does he have to lose running for President? It’s technically been on his bucket list since before he ever heard of a fucking bucket list; even if he still hasn’t heard of one yet. Hard to know what the fuck Trump culturally knows or doesn’t know, outside lowball National Enquirer-WWE lowball culture schlock. Still it would be good to know when he knew he wanted to run, or what his EUREKA moment was. By this time, I think we can all admit he’s many-many levels beyond a simple bi-polar narcissist. But if you see Warren Beatty’s Rules Don’t Apply you may witness a mirror of exactly what we have to look forward to in a Trump presidency, because Beatty’s portrayal of an almost totally mad (but sometimes quirky fucking brilliant - in an irrelevant way) Howard Hughes was right on the money with what we’re most likely stuck with.


It’s uncanny and awesome and terrifyingly funny all at the same time. But whoever Trump is, whatever he is, momentarily good, bad or apocalyptic, on the night of the fucking election I thought he had displayed a tremendous amount of freedom all through the campaign, the kind of freedom that usually only comes to someone who knows they’re going to die soon. They’re in a place they can say anything. Any fucking thing they want. Though not necessarily follow through and do it. Much less even remember they said it. Which may be a good thing. I mean WHO CARES what he says as long as he doesn’t do it? He’s just riffing! Divine chops working out their ya-yas inside his skull – a lot of dry drunk truths coming out of that, even when he’s lying.  And he’s almost always lying.  What the fuck does he care? He’s salesman. Lying is ingrained so deeply inside him it’s his truth. Anything he says in pursuit of closing the deal is true. That’s just The Rule of every salesman trying to close a sale. To them, it’s not really lying, it’s their job to make sure the deal doesn’t go down. So anything in pursuit of doing a good job and getting what they want is kosher. If he doesn’t think that way, he thinks his family will starve. If he doesn’t think that way, we, his new family will starve. That’s what he believes.  Even if he’s putting us on a diet - because he thinks we’re too fat. No, not Rosie O’Donnell or Chris Christie fat, but compared to the rest of the world, we’ve been spoiled our whole lives.  And if he doesn’t get us in shape, who’s gonna do it? If he doesn’t get us in shape, then it’s on him. Then what have we got? What the fuck have we got then?

Go back with me for a moment. It’s 10 p.m. on the night of the election and I actually feel the fucking momentum shifting from Hillary to fucking Trump is what we’ve fucking got now!  I’ve just set a world’s record for most fucks used in one piece by writer under the poisonous influence of politics, but I don’t give a fuck. Now it looks like he could take Florida, maybe North Carolina, and impossible as it seems, even fucking Pennsylvania. . .and  OH MY GOD, please say it ain’t so, Michigan! If that happens, I thought, we’re totally FUCKED!

FUCKED, indeed. This was a perfect example of exactly what the Founding Faths feared the most about power-to-the-people Democracy, and has – jumping out of that fateful night right up to the beginning of the new year – guaranteed, against the will of over half the shaking with rage & terror voters in this divided and totally fragmented country, to dramatically change the world we know and live in, into . . .into. . . well, after watching the worst group of Congressional goons in our history take over before Trump’s even been sworn in as the first Czar of Fragmerica, and vote to gut the House Congressional Ethics office, what they want to do is no longer the fucking $64 gazillion question. For all we know their act was pre-scripted to make La Donald look like a hero for bitch slapping them to recant the act. Which illuminates the mantra to hope for the best, expect the worst, and in the process figure out how to stop the fuckers from turning this country into another corrupt Mideast war zone.

© 1/3/20-fucking-17 Mike Golden


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