[Previously on BOBBT: This poor and misdirected party with their angry and self-righteous, starving-for-power candidates and their livid and misled supporters want control of the executive branch of government so desperately, they’ll do anything to achieve their goals.]
So they find a maniac with a penchant for the perverse, speaking exactly the kind of bluster their disillusioned and angry voters, and not only, want to hear, hitching a ride on his rampant populism. Pretending he hasn’t hijacked their party, making a joke of their traditions and beliefs, if not the country at large, they jump straight into his mouth and slide down inside his belly and hide there, praying they don’t dissolve in the churning acid, waiting for the moment to regurgitate their way back out into the world and execute their plans.
Others, less durable, have sought temporary refuge in their perverse-looking candidate’s magnificent toupee. Camouflaged under the streaks of golden polyester hair gleaming in the political and cultural spotlight, its fifteen-minute hall of populist fame reaching its seven-minute-mark high, they hide from the cameras, little stowaways that they are, hiding behind the follicles of the great polyamide hijacker, biding their time, hoping they won’t be shaken off like the dandruff they are before they can parachute their way down on the unsuspecting world with their dated ideologies in hand.
And the most adventurous of them all, the perverse-loving fiends of the party, they hang out with the hijacker himself out in the open, in front of the flashing cameras, cross-dressing and cosplaying and pretending they’re part of a new breed of politician, a special kind designed to serve the will of the people — all bullshit, the whole outfit — ashes in the eyes of citizens desperate enough to vote for this circus, this Trojan Horse chock-full of nasty little surprises waiting to pop like poisonous mushroom spores across the land, taking root in the 2016-2020 executive administration.
See, this desperate party with their outdated policies and their obsolete agendas, they did something sly, almost ingenious. They backed the dark horse of the race, Donald Trump-in-the-box, in order to win the vote (the electoral vote, in particular, which, bar any surprises, they will secure by today, Monday, 19 Dec) knowing that perhaps, just perhaps this horse is so damn wild, so rabid, it will kick and break every custom and norm in and around the Oval Office. It will trash everything decent and good in the country, disrespecting the institutions of the land, violating a number of rules and laws in the process, perhaps even the constitution itself.
When it does, this horse, the Trump, the Donald, Mr. Terrific in the flesh will be up for impeachment or whatever kind of disciplinary action his transgression entails, which the party won’t oppose. Maybe, just maybe, this power-hungry set of politicians whose outfit the Rigoletto Donaldrump so easily hijacked, this tragic political gathering of angry ideologs will hijack the president at their own time, turn on him and help bury the dagger deep inside his rotten heart. They will stand aside when the shit hits the fan, unwilling to lend their support, letting the long arm of the law do its thing; put the wild horse in chains, or out of its misery, sliced across the belly and tossed to the side, out of whose carcass the little hiding presies and hitchhikers and other nasty stowaways will pop out, spilling their way through the Union’s administration, helping the American VOTUS, their guy on the bench, run the country as the party sees fit.
The VOTUS, of course, is none other than Mike Pence, a man of the party — loyal partisan supreme, great line-toer; a loyalist trusted to assume control of the administration if and when Trump Horse Rigoletto is dispatched.
And the livid, grand old, power-starved party who couldn’t elect a candidate to save their own formaldehyded body will have acquired executive authority through the back door, via a political gambit to match the wily conquerors of Troy.
It’s a crazy prospect — one may call it terrific, just terrific, even more terrific than Trump’s terrific terrificness, which is so damn terrific it makes everything extra special crazy, almost unbelievable — but what if this is exactly what they’re doing? Waiting for the moment when Trump steps in his own stool so they can hang him out to dry and rule via their carefully placed regent?
From your deliciously all-anticipating and Machiavelli-minded Spin Doctor,
Eyes open, mind sharp.
PS – The strategy is called ‘Lifting the Mike,’ and it’s one hell of a move.