Every day, it feels like we move a bit closer to disaster of one sort or another.
No one is minding the store.
Most in positions of responsibility and authority are operating out of an abundance of ineptitude, incapable of tending to reality, hired because of their loyalty to a big-mouthed egomaniac and not necessarily because they know anything about their jobs.
We’re constantly dealing with the batshit craziness of it all, aghast at the excuse making, the lying, the administration-wide incompetence, and the blatant, unchecked self-interest.
Most days, the country appears to be running on autopilot, on muscle memory. There are lots of moving parts, after all. But it’s starting to feel like, shortly, various chickens will be coming home to roost—the greed, the short-sightedness, the mismanaged economy, the testosterone-fueled distractions some call military operations, the mystifying refusal to acknowledge that our environment is sick. The racism. The paranoia. It’s all gonna come crashing down.
Maybe that’s why Donald is pushing so hard for his ballroom. He really feels like he needs to take up residence in what’s being built underneath it. Sounds like we should let him. He’ll need a place to hide after the blue wave.
Then maybe nature will take its course, and our fearless leader will follow in the footsteps of one of his heroes, sans Eva. Maybe Natalie will have the good sense not to follow him in there.
3 Cents' 