The most staggering take-out from the Capitol ruckus was not the sight of a few hundred rank, one-toothed, tits-out hillbillies in full-MAGA descending on the seat of the legislative body.
Nossir, it was that it took a jaunty rumble from the sweaty masses and a few waywardly lobbed bricks to prompt any serious notion of bombing out the universe boss of scumbags as the Leader of the Free World.
Calls for the President to be removed from office 12 days before the end of his tenure are noteworthy only because this highlights that US lawmakers had sat on their hands throughout the preceding four years of random, bonkers, banana-republic brownshirting.
Yes, there had been an earlier impeachment, but that had all been limp-wristed window-dressing and priggish point-scoring. Still, the louche, liberal lefties on the block did manage to get his Twitter account suspended, so that’s progress of sorts even if they are still allowing him to retain his stewardship of the largest nuclear arsenal in the history of the world.
But at least he has now been prevented from pressing the Tweet button. Small mercies and all that.
Seriously though, was this an ‘attempted coup’? It was not even halfway to a ‘coochie coo’. Hardly the Götterdämmerung that the media fanfares have been suggesting. And that is precisely the point. All these plastic politicians love to get up in arms over imagined crises because it all distracts from their own inaction on the uncomfortable issues that do matter. Like failing to kick out a dickhead President on any given day during the preceding four years.
Maybe Trump needed to be a bit more obvious about his wholesale, weapons-grade uselessness? Well, he was fiendishly subtle about all that while his administration was in full swing, wasn’t he? (guffaw)
Anyway, President-Elect Biden smoothly fizzed out onto the stage to unfurl his tissue of tripe, and what a strange cat he is. I swear his movement is aided by some sort of air-cushion hover technology because his shimmying is not walking in the accepted sense. He kind of glides over an invisible monorail, or perhaps is controlled by a teenage bedroom-dweller armed with an Xbox controller.
He seemed angry, but with the volume turned down on your TV, you would never have known it. His face is so brazenly botoxed that his expressions never wrestle through to the edpidermis. We witnessed a neatly ironed face and a fisted table, but that was about it.
His righteous words, lapped up by the hip, virtue-signalling cliques, lamentably mirrored the tired and clichéd repertoire of every corporate hack since time began.
Yup, the same old shite that tedious CEOs drill into hapless employees during excruciating town hall sessions that make staff yearn to shotgun a can or two of Jonestown Kool-Aid.
Aspirations dressed up as values.
They toke hard on that gear in every boardroom in the world. Relentlessly high on their own supply while their vacuous enterprises slip down the shitter.
The USA is not great, and the world has had four years of hard evidence that spells out precisely why it isn’t. But for a moment, just check out the math. In the election, 73.5m Americans still voted for Orange-You-Bang. That’s a whole load of critters who still believe that his four years of mayhem merited a second term.
And there’s more. That was an increase of 10.1m on 2016’s count, so there is no shortage of fresh converts to the cause of scattergun, hate-filled mendacity.
If a nation’s greatness flows from its people, they have already written their own references. They have a lot to peg back right now.
Meanwhile, in the background, cocksure, smug, Miss Token USA, Kamala smirked into the gusset of her Disney mask, counting down the days to the big inauguration.
Not to Biden’s, but to hers.
And wouldn’t you feel overwhelmingly self-satisfied if you had been plucked from relative obscurity on the basis of your everyman DNA and arbitrarily shoehorned into a slot within a whisker of the biggest gig in Worldsville.
And yes, given the accelerating downhill trajectory that was characterised by the unprecedented car crash of 2020, you had better believe that she will ultimately make that final hop and plonk her phat azz into the big chair. That is the sort of grim kick in the bollocks for us all that life serves up when on all fronts you are a blue Rizla’s width from being furiously bum-raped by the gods of chance. Which is pretty much where we are as we enter 2021.
Given time in such an eventuality – and that equates to about a fortnight in real terms – the US public would be voluntarily ingesting COVID-saturated rat spunk and yearning for a return to Trump-flavoured, fascist shizzle over the bumptious self-congratulation of Momala, whose only saving grace is that a U-turned uterus has spared her a vadge like a punched quiche.
Predictably, professional fatso Boris Johnson set his Fray Bentos fare aside for five minutes and dragged his pie-munching frame into the fray to weigh in on the rabble rumble and spooged up an intervention that surpassed even the extremes of Trumpian absurdity. Yes, the very same man who had previously been hauled up in court for trying to circumvent Parliament stepped up to lecture the Yanks about the sanctity of democracy.
The EU, naturellement, had their say too on the unsavoury skirmishes and the ‘assault on freedom’, even while the ink was still damp on their contract for a monster economic tie-up with China. Their shameless shilling once again reflecting that they are indeed giants on the world stage, albeit that of shameless, charlatanic imposturing.
So, as the light at the end of the Trumpian tunnel becomes visible, the US and the rest of the world are not yet out of the woods.
There is plenty more Capitol punishment to come.