“… [W]e’re done accommodating you lunatics. it’s time for actual adults to return to the room and supplant the squalling squalor you have inflicted upon us, our economies, our cultures, and our institutions.” - El Gato Malo on Substack

By James Howard Kunstler - July 8, 2024

Imagine: President “Joe Biden,” on the deck behind his Rehoboth Beach house Sunday evening before a most consequential week. He just declared to the nation that only an “act of God” will prevent him from running for re-election. Dr. Jill has gone inside for another martini, extra-dry, no vermouth, no ice, no olive. . . no glass. Chief advisor, Hunter Biden, just drove into Wilmington “to pick something up,” he said. Chocolate chip ice cream melts in the bowl on “JB’s” lap as he endures another Parkinsonian frozen rapture. His gaze is fixed on the gray-green Atlantic, a blank horizon, much like his current career prospects.

As happens often these days, he slips off to sleep. In his dream, a red phone is ringing.
“Who’s this. . .?” he says.
“Me, God. Thought it was time you and me had a little chat. You can’t be serious ’bout this re-election thang.”
“I’m defending our democracy. Gotta stay in. Defeat Hitler.”
“Democracy my ass! You channelin’ Hitler yourself a little too much lately. How it is you laid ninety-seven indictments on my dawg DJT? You done George Floyded da man!”
“But. . . but. . . the insurrection—”
“Insurrection my ass! Why you keep sayin’ dat.”

“If you repeat stuff enough, people believe it.”
“Who told you that?”
“Andrew Weissmann.”
“Oh, really? I kicked his ass outa my house more’n four thousand years ago. He ain’t nothin’ but trouble. Who told you to listen to him?”
“Lisa Monaco and Mary McCord.”
“Oh? Them two! Just so you know, I canceled they retirement plan up here with me. They goin’ to the other place wid Weissmann. Now, I got news for you, Joey: Ima have to take yo’ ass out dis election.”
“But why? I’ve accomplished so much. Did you see me at Gettysburg, beating those insurrectionists?”
“I see everything. Didn’t see you around dat day.”
“What about when I stormed the beaches at Normandy?”
“Naw. You was in a playpen, going goo-goo-goo. Look, Joey, here’s the deal: remember you said ‘God bless America’ in all them speeches you made?”
“We all say that. Anyway. . . .”
“Maybe y’all go through the motions, but I got responsibilities, know what I’m sayin’? I been tryin’ and tryin’ to bless dis land but yo’ bunch making’ it mighty difficult for me. So, news flash: yo’ ass is out de race. Official act from yours truly. Sorry.”
“But. . .but. . . that’s. . . that’s racist!” the President stutters as his dream dissolves in a vapor.

Dr. Jill is shaking his shoulder, rather harshly.
“I heard that! Don’t even dare think of dropping out,” she says. “Or you’ll never get another bowl of ice cream ever again! Do you read me?”
“Yeah, Okay! Okay!” Anyway. . . .”

And so it goes in the twilight hours of our forty-sixth president. At least Rob Reiner hasn’t asked him to step aside. At this point, it looks like nobody’s in a position to save our democracy until and unless they do something to save the floundering Democratic Party. All hands are on deck in our nation’s capital. Congress is even coming back from vacation today. So much desperate chatter is rising out of the Potomac Swamp that it’s like a deadly miasma infecting everyone! What on earth to do now?

There are Plans A, B, C, D, E . . . . Only one problem: they all look like variations on a Chinese fire drill. Let the demented bastard run and hope for the best? Please! You thought the debate was bad? And the Stephanopoulos colloquy was unnerving? Imagine the gaffes and flubs to come in the months ahead. For instance, the convention in Chicago. . . “Joe B” freezes up for five long minutes at the podium mid-acceptance speech like a defective android in a sci-fi movie. . . “Joe B” takes a header off the stage at a Midwest state fair. . . “Joe B” challenges a quadriplegic veteran in a wheelchair to a push-up contest. . . .

Then there is. . . the Kamala question. Could she, uh, step into the breach, if it. . . you know . . . had to be? She comes with a dowry of over $250-million in campaign contributions, which no other candidate has dibs on. Quite a temptation. But the cackling. . . ? The vapid word-salad. . .? The record of accomplishment. . . ?

Would Hillary even allow that? I said uh-hey (hey), you (you), get offa my cloud! Hillary is lurking so quietly in the background she’s like one of those self-camouflaging bottom-feeder fish pretending to be a rock, with a coy little tendril dangling in front of her garage-size mouth to lure the little fishies in . . . before . . . chomp chomp! But, has she plumb worn out her welcome in American politics? Is she a fazed cookie? You can’t help but see a big, bold letter “L” on her forehead lately. She might, arguably, be even more loathed by more voters than Mr. Trump at this point.

Then there’s the idea put out just over the weekend to stage an insta-bliz primary before the August Dem Convention. With the condition of “positive-only” campaigns. Does that mean no Hitler-talk? Can’t wait to see how that works out.

Finally, there’s the novelty solution to this fine mess: . . .

[SNIP]