The year 2020: coasting to the end of an accidental presidency, the vacationing celebrity reality star masquerading as a conservative republican turns on the anti-everything, believe-anything electorate; back to his godless, reprehensible New York liberal roots.
He treacherously betrays the Hillbilly Dipshit Caucus. Now a permanent congressional body following sweeping tea party victories in gerrymandered white trash districts. Unchecked and only made possible by the president’s lapdog, self-disempowering judiciary appointees.
Once celebrated, now disgraced culture warrior VP Mike Pence flees into ignominy. As the rabid right’s worst nightmares finally come true. The unrepentant sinner cum president pays reparations, legalizes abortion and being gay, makes deals like you never seen with Merica’s Mexican and Muslim enemies, and extends his teeny tiny fingers to wipe his goldplated ass with the sacred paper of our aging, now almost irrelevant constitution.
Acceding to one world government, he pries all remaining guns from the cold dead hands of 10,000 NRA patriots gunned down by black helicopters and the UN Army. Backwoods sharpshooters inundate the Secret Service with hate mail. The president’s erstwhile voters – mystified by the betrayal of family values at the hands of a Playboy cover – try to make good on ominous, now darkly ironic campaign warnings about “Second Amendment people.”
As he shambles shamefully out of the Oval Office, NBC brings his flocks of faithful evangelical viewers and voters face-to-face with the shocking, unavoidable truth: it was all a coastal hoax designed to mock and humiliate Middle America, make a hideous caricature out of the seedy family values underbelly, and erode dipshit moron voting power for good.
His election was a preposterous media experience, a great leap backward in thinkfluence. Ungrateful sheeple spited the prevailing wisdom, defied the experts, and turned out in droves to vote for a man they had despised within their own totally unracist lifetimes.
That is, hated until a few years back when he gained conservatwerp street cred by loudly proclaiming our first black president to be foreign born and ineligible for office. It was an absurd, yet cathartic and epochal media experience. All the experts said he had no chance; then he won by an electoral college landslide.
Thus, did a man once derided by the baptized as the essence of our national excess and shame implausibly reemerge as their president. Haphazardly metastasizing into an ersatz version of one of those corny comeback stories so beloved by naive unquestioning innocents everywhere: rehab, recovery, repentance, redemption, resurrection, salvation!
Family values folks should have spent tragicomic campaign 2016 showering the sybarite candidate with hellfire and damnation. But instead reveled like pigs in shit amuck his gloatingly unchristian worldview. For god’s sake, he once crawled so far into the gutter that he emerged on the Howard Stern show.
In America’s debut reality election, the philistine’s bewildering popularity with god’s chosen ones made no sense. Their end times worldview clearly stipulated such a demagogue to be a likelier candidate for antichrist than president, yet dipshit morons loved him.
But he didn’t love them back. The thrice married, reality tv candidate was actually just some slick left coast studio exec’s cruel practical joke at the expense of our credulous heartland. It wasn’t even a real campaign. Former Candid Camera producers were just hard at work on what was anticipated to be NBC’s spring 2017 smash hit: Candid Candidate.
Trump’s inner circle certainly never expected him to win. And no one was more stunned or dismayed than the man himself when, as president, he was forced to renege on a fresh contract and postpone Merica’s newest favorite reality series to accommodate a totally unexpected four years in the White House.
Because the candidate never truly believed in the dying Nixon/Reagan-era old man values he so shamelessly peddled: nationalism, fundamentalism, racism. He was always resplendent in his vanquished foe’s glittery Clinton ones: sex, scandal, celebrity. The star remained the same: a dollar store checkout line tabloid cover abomination.
What changed was his target audience’s willingness to creatively reinterpret their own values in reckless, feckless pursuit of political agency. Long disdained by the rust and bible belts as a posterchild for worldliness, he just stage-managed a convincing conversion story and sold the good folk of the Great Plains on a transparent lie that he was just like them.
He was never like them
Disappointed by rapture delays, fearing they’d all been left behind, and being in the world but not of it, heedless hillbilly believers invoked a time-honored dipshit moron tradition: “If we can’t have it, no one will.”
Late, great planet Earth, indeed: Trump-Pence 2016. Vast, unanticipated crowds of jabbering, hyperventilating, off the grid born again poured out the hills into voting booths to wipe Crooked Hillary off the electoral map.
Eagerly anticipating the bad trip, misanthrope fever dreams of Warrior Jesus holocausting the rest of us at Armageddon, brimstone believers’ ultraviolent, manic hatred and long-suspected hypocrisy were on full display. As they basked in artless adoration of a man who’d been one of their preeminent moral outrages for two generations of the culture wars.
Despite the new president’s numerous and prominent sinner bona fides from his life before birthers, televangelism viewers spent the last few years nodding gravely at the boob tube in grim, hypocritical agreement with a man who made retard jokes and couldn’t convincingly quote their favorite book that none of them ever actually read.
The silent and moral majorities’ fat jowls trembled indignantly at Ellen Degenerate and the lamestream media. As they muttered darkly over tv dinners from the sofa that it’s been a long time comin’…
“Do unto others? Hell yes, do it! Gog, Magog, Megiddo, 666, Mark of the Beast, Whore of Babylon!” Lashing out at a brave new world they taught children to hate, Merica’s aging white evangelical jackasses would go neither gently nor gracefully into that good night. If they go, they’d take us all with them. Unto oblivion in their apocalyptic fervor for something different, and anything but what we have.
And what we have is the world’s 16th highest standard of living. One to which many hopefuls aspire.
Remember? We’re number one, or at least number 14. Love it or leave it. America’s already so great that everyone in the world wants to come here. These are old rightwing white guy talking points. Liberals are the ones who hate America!
The president’s campaign ploys were meticulously and unmistakably designed to match this cognitive dissonance. Patronizing stunts – like enlisting family values favorite Pence as VP and deputizing the Son of Falwell to evangelize family folk who should’ve known better – struck the deepest, darkest dipshit chords among Jesus freaks and jackasses. And they responded, propelling an unreconstructed, unrepentant sinner into the Oval Office.
Essentially, the pussy grabber was just an early pretender who caught the tea party idiot savant wave when it broke and rode gleefully all the way down some east coast highway from New York to Washington in a golden limousine. Fantasizing about fucking his own daughter. You know, just like millions of other good, wholesome American godfearers.
Damning all demographics, he bet that billion dollar smile of his on the lowest common denominator of gullible, low-income, no-education or information, hillbilly voters. Manifesting and incarnating gliberals’ assumptive bias that: “Yes, indeed, all these rural flyover fucks are idiots.”
Godbotherers and gunlovers never saw it coming. The accused rapist’s trainwreck campaign and unexpected presidency had all just been footage for his latest blockbuster reality show. Ultimately weaponizing the crudest stereotypes of dispirited yokels’ primitive faith and ideology back against them.
Trojan Trump: Candid Candidate. The first and worst of its kind: surreality tv.
Misbegotten. Warped. Hulking. Dripping. Oozing. Brooding. Lumpen. Menacing. Cyclopean.
A grim, ominous vision straight out of Lovecraft, Dali, Ernst, or Hunter Thompson’s darkest fascistic, politicalyptic acid nightmare hallucinations.
