Just when you thought the televisual numbing of the body politic was a fait accompli, when the Continuous FLOW of XTreme TRUMPology has brought on permanent, political rigor mortis, there was a tiny sign of life today in the Halls of Congress. Robert Mueller, the consummate Good Cop, the model bureaucrat, penetrated (however subtly) the NewSpeak mantras of no collusion, no obstruction, no impeachment, total exoneration, and all the rest of TRUMP’s empty denials, by painting a damning portrait of the New Abnormal.
REPORTAGE. I will report. That is my only recourse for action when true and false have collapsed in on themselves. Today, 2+2=5. There is nothing else to do.
Before the Hate had proceeded for thirty seconds, uncontrollable exclamations of rage were breaking out from half the people in the room. In its second minute the Hate rose to a frenzy. People were leaping up and down in their places and shouting at the tops of their voices.
I have timestamped my life, meticulously, scrupulously: as I attempt to close the final chapter on my ever-expanding treatise: Episodic Work_FLOW Concerning Post Reality Conditions. Down here in the seclusion of my Underground Studio Bunker in Washington, DC, I work tirelessly. You see, these times of crisis require extreme measures. And I’m not the only one. No, I am not alone speaking out to the Network, the Third Space, that vast interconnected virtual realm, as isolated as it may feel.
TRUMP’s 4th of July MILITARY SHOW on the National Mall was a futile attempt to stand tall, proud + brave as the GREAT DICTATOR he wills himself to be: it all turned out to be nothing more than a pathetic and surreal Chaplinesque tragicomedy: the emperor with no clothes, no ideas, and no brains.
Just when you think you have heard it all, seen it all, you can’t even begin to imagine how this epic horror show could possibly become any darker and more sinister: and yet, it simply does. The XTreme TRUMPogical reality show antics we have come to know so well: angry temper tantrums agitated by the press, gangster talk on the White House driveway, a staff of Stepford Wives lying through their teeth, Republicans cowering inside their underground holes beneath what used to be the People’s House, misspelled Twitter missives exploding somewhere off in the distance, all amidst a dazed electorate too brain dead to comprehend just how far they have sunk into this no-longer-metaphorical swamp.