On Good Friday, someone asked on Twitter, “If you were Christ, what would your seven last words be?” I answered, “This slice of chocolate cake tastes funny.” But Christ was not a guest at Mar-a-Lago, and all he got was vinegar on a sponge. The closest most people got to the Passion in downtown Washington last week was reading about a scorpion falling onto a passenger from a United Airlines overhead bin.
Truth be told, there are many neighborhoods outside the federal enclave where people suffer terribly. But Speaker Ryan doesn’t want to feed hungry children lest they become dependent. Attorney General Sessions wants to cut federal police funding to punish D.C. for being a sanctuary city. President Tiny Hands is focused on the size of his arsenal. “Alt-right” politicians could never win election to the liberal D.C. Council, but if they could, they would introduce bills allowing bakers to deny cake to the sorts of people with whom Christ would probably be sharing a meal.
As I write this, protesters are demanding the release of 45’s tax returns. I think they would be more productive organizing for 2018, or emailing the Russian Embassy urging Putin to release the pee tape.
The con-artist-in-chief is out of his depth with Chinese President Xi and has become the mark. Notice that Trump, who scorns American experts, is happy to be schooled by the Chinese leader because they have good chemistry. Where will his next impulse take us?
Sixteen years ago, terrorists flew a commercial airliner into the Pentagon. We have no immunity. Our country is not under divine protection. President Chaos, who says “my military” as if referring to his golf clubs, inspires confidence in neither friend nor foe.
I go to my roof on a balmy Easter weekend to enjoy the night breeze and look out over the peaceful capital. At least it’s peaceful in this spot eight blocks north of the White House. Jupiter and Arcturus are rising, one at a distance of 400 million miles, the other 37 light-years away. Even with the best instruments trained right at us, an Arcturan astronomer 37 years from now would notice at most a slight wobble were we suddenly to obliterate ourselves.
If Trump owned a bawdy house instead of a golf course, the headline for his latest trip there might read, “Trump Visits Brothel For 19th Time, Secret Service Pays Him $35K For Condom Rentals.” Now you may find the idea of renting condoms impractical and disgusting, until you realize that they are one thing he is unlikely to grab. Besides, are they really more gross than under-refrigerated beef? And to be fair, no decent brothel owner keeps visitor logs.
A creature crawls out of the swamp and says, “I alone can fix it.” This makes me think of the singing and dancing frog in the old Warner Bros cartoon. You can’t blame the frog or the swamp creature for the fact that people bought their act.
As the world teetered on the brink of war, a bit of dark humor on Twitter reminded me of a 1989 “Doonesbury” series on Joanie’s friend Andy, who was hospitalized with AIDS. His doctor said, “You know your jammies clash with your lesions, don’t you?” He answered, “So who are you, Ralph Lauren?” Joanie said, “How can you joke?” Andy replied, “How can you not?”
So here I am wondering: as the lunatics leading the United States and North Korea wave their dicks at each other, will I get an alert on my iPhone in the event of impending Armageddon? I have a hot neighbor who might let me do him if we’re all about to die anyway. Come to think of it, that could be the contribution to the public good by the strutting ass whom some young officer has to follow around with the nuclear football: inspiring a new genre of erotica.
Actually, not so new. A hundred fifty years ago, English poet Matthew Arnold wrote “Dover Beach,” which can be summed up like this: we live on a darkling plain where ignorant armies clash by night, so let’s get it on while there’s still time. You look beautiful in the moonlight.
Richard J. Rosendall is a writer and activist. He can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org.
Copyright © 2017 by Richard J. Rosendall. All rights reserved.