Kevin Brennan Writes About What It's Like
Follow along with me — won’t you? — as I document the events of the next seven days. We have arrived at the top of the roller coaster’s last peak, the tallest of them all, and we’re about to career headlong to our national fate. Will we wind up in a deep dark pool of tepid goo or a vat of sulfurous orange hell fire?
Obviously I’m greatly concerned over the weekend’s events. James Comey (who is a freakish 6′ 8″ I didn’t know till now) decided to stage a preemptive coup by sending Republican leaders in congress the most repellant kind of email porn — a letter suggesting that there might be new dirt on Hillary via Anthony Weiner’s sticky laptop. And of course they disseminated it immediately, just about soiling themselves with their own tepid goo as they spewed excitedly about Hillary’s “criminal activities.”
Take it from John Dean — Hillary is no Richard Nixon.
Last night my wife and dog and I huddled in the bedroom watching a bad movie in the dark so we wouldn’t get any trick or treaters. Only this morning do I understand that this was a metaphor for the next four to eight years.
It occurred to me yesterday that a better way to select our president would be for the people to pick someone who’s unwilling to serve. It would work like Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery,” but instead of killing the poor unfortunate by stoning, we’d force him or her to sit through endless meetings with Mitch McConnell and Paul Ryan. Personally I think I’d prefer stoning, so I hope they don’t pick me, but at least we’d be certain the president didn’t get there out of narcissistic ambition.
I now see how the conditions of Carmac McCarthy’s The Road came about.
At least one other neurotic has selected this paragraph from that book as the scariest passage in all of literature. I feel like we’re there, right now:
He started down the rough wooden steps. He ducked his head and then flicked the lighter and swung the flame out over the darkness like an offering. Coldness and damp. An ungodly stench. He could see part of a stone wall. Clay floor. An old mattress darkly stained. He crouched and stepped down again and held out the light.
Don’t go, America. Don’t go down there!