Emperor has no clothes

Let me tell you about Barack Obama and how the hateful opposition sneeringly lengthened his name to Barack Hussein Obama while simultaneously shortening Jefferson Beauregard Sessions the Third into “Jeff”.  Not one, but two Confederate Army officers honored by his parents, embedded in his name.  Trying so hard to please his boss, the Great Divider, no draconian policies were good enough or mean enough if investigations proceeded however well justified.

This is something not up for grabs, my voice, my vote, my vagina.  Scandal upon scandal, vie for venal victory, and former friends shrug and call us Socialists, a would-be epithet I shall embrace.  If my Libertarian, dyed in the wool capitalism can be called socialism, well doesn’t that just open the flood gates to Upside Down World?  And I really don’t think asserting that “the sun’ll come up tomorrow” can convince the Flat Earth Society that they need to shut the fuck up.  My mail-in ballot was received and I assume counted, but there rises the specter of hanging chads, and maybe the Chads and Chips and Chucks should be hung, by the raised collars of their sporty shirts.

Authoritarian Regime after Regime – how many more?   And Frank Zappa sings in my head that “It can’t happen here, ‘cause I’ve been checkin’ it out…Suzie Creamcheese, this is the voice of your conscience speaking”…

In the deep South, women dress in hoop skirts and sing the praises of the of their plantation museums, like anything about the Antebellum South is worthy of praise.  Docents guide visitors through the Grand House, clippety clopping down the tree lined drive in dainty carriages they arrive at the lovingly restored mansions and only in some plantations, the ones I visited, are the slave cabins preserved.

In retrospect, breaking up the Divided States, letting the Confederacy spin off (good riddance) into a separate nation, imagining a different outcome, where there is no Electoral College, where winners of the popular vote just fucking win.  A stalemate in an earlier war, agreeing to go our separate ways and Sojourner Truth and Frederick Douglass and Harriet Tubman lived long active lives, where John Brown’s body and those of his murdered sons never did molder in the grave.  Passengers on the Underground Railroad making it to freedom funding the rebellion, burning down the mansions and putting up plaques honoring the laborers.  From a safe distance pointing to the Mason/Dixon line and saying “There’s evil in them thar hills”.

This is what we don’t know – the flowers picked, you girls gone to husbands, young men gone to soldier, every one – when will they every learn?  Oh, when will they ever learn?It’s just all so repetitive, all so sickening, all so backwards.  Hate is always propaganda and propaganda is always hate, and power corrupts absolutely.  Chin Shr Huang Di ate mercury for immortality.  Mao Ze Dong ate opium balls and let syphilis drive him mad, and the Four Olds were attacked and destroyed by blinded followers.  Stalin brutally murdered his opponents, Rome begat Caligula, Hitler begat the Final Solution and these are DEAD dictators.  Former President Trump cozies up to today’s bloodthirsty power mad megalomaniacs and here’s where Russia fits in – when democracies band together, invasion and annexations become harder to pull off.  Bullies are right now licking their wounds – injuries sustained by the mere hint of disagreement, by the unforgiveable sin of dissent.  They set about to silence voters where voting IS allowed, and to simply jail those of lesser means.  Gaia, they are so brittle, resentful of a beautiful autumn day in early November when we threw a rock at the wall of sycophants surrounding the Emperor with no clothes.  On the inside of the wall, he is striding purposefully in imaginary finery.  Emerging weeks later, he dons a perfectly tailored coat and shuffles down the ramp to a guilt laden obscurity.

Published by Ms. C. G. Tripp

Catherine G. Tripp, Writer/Investor a lifelong mix. Left brain and right brain battle for dominance. I wrote the marketing materials for my mortgage brokerage, had a personal finance column at Examiner.com, wrote essays, short stories and poems published in school papers and magazines then literary journals. If my writings were a color, they would be yellow, bright as sunlight, highlighting the salient portions, not obscuring the past but deconstructing air brushed stories, finding humor and courage in the unloved corners.

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