They’re still burying John McCain today. They’ve been burying him all week. I don’t know when he’ll actually get put in the ground. For that matter, I don’t know that putting him in the ground is part of the plan; he may be cremated, for all I know. But the thing is, he’s been dead for a week — for seven full days — and people are still gathering to pay their final respects (or, in the case of politicians like Pence, McConnell, and Ryan, to fake their final respects) to the man.
Comrade Trump, of course, isn’t there. He’s off somewhere else, tweeting angrily about what a great president he is, and how unfair it is that he’s being investigated, and how nobody can be trusted or believed except him.
But knowing that Trump is alive and tweeting while McCain is being buried, an obvious questions comes to mind. Some day it’ll be Comrade Trump’s day in the box. Who’ll come to his funeral? Who’ll give speeches praising him? Who’ll be his pall-bearers? Who’ll weep uncontrollably?
How many ordinary citizens will wait in line for hours to look at his casket?
This type of thought occurs to me all the time… the other day, as I was walking up the steps to the Safeway, I saw a colouring book of U.S. Presidents lying on the ground, and I wondered how we got here. Because this country has no process in place with which to nullify the results of the election, and because impeachment/conviction or resignation won’t erase him from our history books, and because our future corporate-owned politicians will agree to sweep his bile-filled presidency under the rug so that the nation can “heal,” one day, children will be handed colouring books of U.S. presidents, and his vile, crooked, lying, corrupt, vengeful, petty, vindictive, self-serving, racist, treasonous visage will be reduced to “45th President, Donald J. Trump.”
And that might be the longest sentence I have ever written in my life.
And I suppose there’ll be a Trump Presidential Library stuck in some glittery corner of Trump Tower, or in an annex to the Mar-a-Lago Country Club.