It seems as if I wake up almost every night, and there is some vision of Donald Trump inside my head as I slowly struggle to decide whether to go to the bathroom or not.  And in the process of waking up, I look at my mental image of this toad residing in the Oval Office, I find myself being more than slightly disgusted. How could I have the POTUS perpetually taking up part of my mind like this? What kind of disgusting animal is he? And does this mean that I am a disgusting animal for having him as a permanent resident in my mental interior? What kind of sick fuck is Donald Trump, and what kind of sick fuck am I for having this occupy part of my mind?

I went back to sleep again, sleeping the way an old man does, and I had quite an elaborate dream about our collective current situation.

I awake with a start.  I am standing in my bathrobe a few feet from a small stream. I don't know how I got there, or why I woke up.  But it must be related to the object that is sticking out of the ground beside me. And there is fear  and dread in what I see.

There is a shiny white cylindrical object about 4" in diameter, jutting out three or four feet, but it's broken. There is a narrow slit of a crack running alongside the cylinder, and inside it appears to be filled with a radioactive olive drab goo the consistency of hard opaque jello.

The next scene shows me on a residential street in a neighboring town about five miles away from home. In the middle of the street is a larger cylinder, and there is a considerable amount of goo that's been spilled onto the street. There's no one around, but someone has obviously been here to inspect the site because there's a large red sign with white lettering on it. And it says "BATCH 34."

Now I'm at home, sitting at my desk. I'm trying to figure out what to do. And I figure that the best thing to do is to call the appropriate federal agency in charge of disposing of toxic biohazrds. I begin leafing through my phone book.

The last scene in my nightmare is that I am sitting in a small room all by myself.  It's not a prison, but it certainly is behind several layers of high security in some total institution -- not a prison but some kind of highly restricted medical facility. I'm in a comfortable isolation unit in a small room with a steel door and no windows. There is a sink and toilet. There is a chair and writing table, and there is a small hard bed that I am sitting on. On the other side of the room is a TV screen embedded in the wall with a frozen image.  It has a red background with white letters, and the image says, BATCH 38."

What kind of country is it that allows a beast like this to become its leader? What does it say about ourselves as a people? How am I responsible for helping to make this situation happen?  What are we going to do about it?

These are my waking thoughts this morning.

Views: 85

Comment by Ben Sen on April 27, 2017 at 5:00pm

Obviously, you need a new hobby or a new squeeze.

Comment by Foolish Monkey on April 28, 2017 at 12:26pm

you're not responsible if you didn't vote for him and even if you did, you're only partially responsible.  that is unless you knew him to be of such low character he was willing to collude with russians, that he was truly maniacally egocentric, entirely disinterested in reality or actually accomplishing anything posiitive for the country, someone who wanted to be president in order simply to advance his brand and not to make the country better.  I don't think ANYone thought he was so dangerously uninformed and enthusiastically willing - no determined - to remain uninformed.. 

we all knew he'd be a disaster, but the depths of it were unfathomable.  and the polls indicate even his base, who adore him because they want to believe he adores THEM, even they are starting to see what they got.  it's not pretty.

I don't miss sleep because of that piece of crap.  I might if I had voted for him, but I didn't, as lousy a candidate as clinton was.  I feel sorry for anyone who believes in him.  but I feel sorrier for our country that is depending on him.

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