The fake President is at it again. This time calling Dr. Fauci and other people who actually know something about viruses and how they work a pack of “idiots.” This from a guy who suggested people drink disinfectant to kill the bug. Idiots? A case of the pot calling the kettles black, don’t ya think?
People are tired of hearing about it, says the fake President. Who the hell knows what the people are feeling? But the fake President is sure as hell tired of hearing about it. He doesn’t want people thinking about it, and figuring out that he and his cohort completely blotched the job.
And they have no plan at all. Well, the plan is to let the forest burn. That’s what firefighters do when the fire is off in the bushes and no people or homes are around. They just let the fire burn out and it can burn for months. So that’s what the fake President wants. Just let it burn…off there in the distance.
Problem is…there are people off there in the distance, and the fake President appears quite willing to let the people off there in the distance burn. And why not? Mostly those people off in the distance are old or have brown or black skin. Nobody who counts knows any of these people anyway.
So this gets us off into hairy metaphysical issues about who or what counts. When the real questions isn’t who or what counts, but why are we counting in the first place. The real question is: are all these deaths necessary. No, they are not. Had there been any planning in the first place. But there wasn’t.
The point isn’t who or what counts. But why there wasn’t any planning that may have made many, many deaths unnecessary. And the answer to that questions points clearly to the fake President and his ugly cohort.
While researching my neighbor’s claim that the President might still be sick, I found people claiming that he was never sick. They say, he is faking it. Sure we saw a helicopter descending, like a giant butterfly, over the hospital. But how do we know he was in it. And if he was in it, how do we know he didn’t go inside to hang out in the TV room and restaurant for three days. Yea, maybe, he had a fever. But that could have been a cold. And sure he was wheezing, but what else do you expect of an obese, three hundred pounder.
While lacking proof that he was eating burgers in the restaurant, these people point to his history as evidence. Faking being sick would not at all be out of character for a man who has no character. His is a history of lying, cheating, hectoring, bullying. He is a manipulator and a buffoon, a charlatan and a grifter. Lawyers, money and corrupt accountants have kept him out of jail. He breaks the law and he uses it to break others. He is the apotheosis of a sick system that sees no value in the individual except as he or she may be used to generate more money,
As to why he should fake being sick, they say, “For God’s sake, he was the central character in a reality TV show.” Can’t you figure it out? The sole purpose of a reality TV star is to keep the attention of the viewers focused on him all the time. To do that, you must constantly stir the pot. Make as much stink and trouble as possible. And what could be more dramatic than a President sick with a potentially deadly virus. That will keep them on the edge of their seats.
Don’t you see? While we concentrate on what might happen next, we are not paying attention to the fact that he and his cohort of corrupt vipers have failed to address the mess that is dragging us all down.
I am sad to say my identification with the un-sick President has brought me no relief. I had thought that my identification with him, as a fellow septuagenarian and fellow old white guy, would show me a path through the thicket of the plague. Where he would go, I would follow. But instead I feel led astray. I have been led, not through the thicket, but straight into it.
First he seems to assert, as his philosophy of the virus, pretend it doesn’t exist. Do not wear a mask, do not social distance, forget washing your hands. If you do these things, the virus dominates you. But then he gets the virus and immediately goes to a hospital, via helicopter, These actions suggest the virus really does exist and is not a hoax. Then he is given many medicines and pronounces himself cured and feeling better than he has in twenty years because, contrary to common sense, he is “extremely young.” But this miracle cure is not available to people like me.
I am no closer to being through the thicket than I was before all this. Then I learn from my neighbor, a fellow septuagenarian, that the Sick President may not be in fact cured. The virus may still be there in his body operating outside his consciousness and preparing for a counter attack. And it has only been a few more days that a week since he was diagnosed with the virus. Plenty of time remains for the virus to strike back.
My identification has led me into complete confusion. At this moment I am convinced I will get the virus and die in the years ahead. Because it is not a hoax and will be with us forever. Either that or I will lose my mind.
He may still be sick, my elderly neighbor said. She was out walking her dog. I was on my way to get the mail. How can that be, I said. He is cured. My hearing is going so I could not quite make out what she said. And when I tried to get closer she would move away like I had the plague or something. But I think she said something like this:
He may think he is cured. But maybe, the experts say, all those drugs they gave him only Suppressed the disease but did not cure it. Like Nyquil she said. You take it and it takes away that icky-sicky cold feeling, stuffed up nose and itchy throat. But in the morning you still have the damn cold.
So the drugs may have taken away the SYMPTOMS but not killed the bug itself. He may think and feel that he is twenty years younger. Or that he has dominated the virus. But it may be lurking just outside the range of his consciousness, hiding out, and preparing for a counter attack. And this counter attack she said would be most likely to come, if it comes, when the drugs they gave him begin to wear off.
When I asked when this might happen she began to talk about some big wig in a foreign land by the name of Boris something-or-other. He caught the plague and made many videos right after saying he felt twenty years younger. And after a couple of weeks he got sick as a dog. He started singing a different tune then, she said.
I do not trust old ladies or rumors started by so-called experts. But the idea that the Sick President might collapse at any moment made me feel more anxious than ever. In fact, I feel sick with anxiety and wonder if I might be coming down with something. These are not good feelings for a person in my age bracket.
The sick President says he beat the virus because “I am so young.” Additionally, he says he is “extremely young” (whatever that might mean) and a “perfect physical specimen.” I am a septuagenarian, just like the sick President, and I believe I can say that I am not young. Of course, I am not either a “perfect physical specimen,” But even so I think I can say no septuagenarian can claim to be “extremely young” (whatever that means).
There is no such thing as a young septuagenarian. All you have to do–by way of proof–if indeed you need that–is look at old people and then look at young people I believe you will see that the old people look old and the young people look young. Young people have smooth skin; old people have wrinkles. Young people have muscles and old people have flab. The explanation for this is that young people are young and old people are not. Additionally you will observe, as I have personally experienced, that old people cannot run around, and hop, and jump here and there. Old people have bad knees and weak muscles. They mostly sit still in one place with little moving or jumping around.
Of course, one might argue the sick President did not say he IS young— though he did say that–but that he feels young, which is not the same as being young. This is true. The sick President did indeed say that he feels young. He says both: that he IS young and that he FEELS young. In this conflation of being with feeling I see the Sick President’s Philosophy of the Virus at work again. This is the Pretend Philosophy that says the virus does not exist if you pretend that it doesn’t. A more concrete proof of the Sick President’s belief in this philosophy appears in his Pretend Hair.
My identification with the sick President, as my fellow septuagenarian and fellow human being, is wearing thin. I feel particularly alienated by what I read about a video he make in the Rose Garden, I think it was. In this video, the sick President claims to have discovered a cure for the virus. He thanks God, in fact, for giving him the disease so he could fortuitously discover this miracle cure.
I don’t know the name of this miracle cure. My memory is mercifully failing me. But it was a drug cocktail, given to him by his doctors, and not presently available to the general public. I had hoped through my identification with the sick President, as a fellow old, white, guy, to see my future should I become ill with the bug. That no longer seems possible. The sick President has taken a path not available to me as a member of the general public.
I felt our paths earlier to diverge when I sensed a possible duplicity in the sick President. He argued for example that we should not allow ourselves to be dominated by the bug. We should not wear masks, or wash our hands all the time, or socially distance, or avoid large gatherings such as baseball games. We should live our lives as we had before the virus arrived. We should Pretend it does not Exist. And yet, as soon as the sick President got a fever, he had himself taken by helicopter to a hospital as if the virus does exist. This indicates either that he did not believe what he previously said or that he failed sufficiently to imagine that the virus does not exist.
The Sick President’s Philosophy of the Virus seems to me, thus, internally inconsistent. He says one thing and does another. I become even more confused when he argues that, per his own experience with the wonder drug, the virus is really no big deal. No worse, he says, than the “normal” flu. Well I must disagree. The “normal flu” is no laughing matter to an elderly person like myself. And certainly the COVID was a big deal for the 200,000 who have died from it.
The really sick President really wanted to get out of that hospital. I don’t blame him. I hate hospitals. They stink of disease and death no matter how much they try to cover it up with all manner of stinking disinfectants. And if you have to share a room you have to share the TV with some stranger. The food is atrocious, and they keep waking you up at night. My brother, who died of brain cancer, really complained about them never letting him sleep. What can you say about a place, he said, that commodifies compassion.
So I understand why the Sick President wanted to go home. It’s much nicer there, in your own bed, all snuggly, with your own remote, and some servant to bring you a nice cup of tea. And why shouldn’t he go home, what with the servants there. He has also his own little hospital room in the White House where he can lie around and tweet while they give him fluids intravenously. All at the taxpayers expense.
After all he is the President. He is not one of those all bent over and smelly little old ladies that you see creeping around the halls of the hospital and that are hard even to look at. (For God’s sake, can’t they keep them out of sight!) Who, you know, can’t breath and have a tube stuck down their throats, and who die completely alone because their children and grandchildren can’t get in the hospital.
So hell, yes, I understand why the sick President wanted to get out of that hospital. And he could because He is The President.
Isn’t the Sick President endorsing COVID when he proclaims, in yet another buffoonish chest pounding moment, that he has not felt better in 20 years. Apparently, getting COVID is a good thing, not something to be afraid of at all.
I guess I should rush right out and get it. Perhaps I will go to a crowded bar with no ventilation and nobody wearing a mask and I too, with any luck, will get the bug and feel better than I have in 20 years. Maybe they should bottle the stuff as a life giving elixir; you too can take 20 years off your age, just like the sick President.
Maybe I would take it. Given how miserable I feel at this moment I would welcome feeling like 54 rather than my aching and anxiety ridden 74. With my luck, though, I would probably die. I don’t have the doctors he has to give all the drugs he has taken.
Maybe the steroids the doctors gave him led him to this overly exuberant assessment of his health. You would think somebody might have told him that steroids could do that to a person. I mean make them embarrassingly over exuberant. But then I get the feeling that nobody can tell this guy anything he doesn’t want to hear.
Well, the President is in the hospital. And I am forced to sit and wait for updates on his condition. This makes me edgy because, while I think he has been an incompetent and destructive “leader,” I can’t help but identify with him a little. We are the same age, both born in 1945, both 74 years old. He is my fellow septuagenarian. There is something to that connection; not everybody gets to be one. So hearing about his condition and how he is doing seems a bit like a forecast of how I might do under similar circumstances.
I mean from the beginning of his pandemic thing, I have been made acutely aware that I belong to the group most vulnerable to death by this plague. Over and over again, I see that 70 percent of the people who die from COVID are over 65, and the older you get the worse your chances are. So I identify with the President on this score, and quite irrationally feel that if he being well over 65 and obese on top of that, manages to recover from this attack of the plague, I too over 65 years of age, but not obese, may also recover should I catch it. Somehow the thought of his getting well gives me a feeling of hope.
But, as I said, this is all irrational. Were I to get this plague I would not have the best medical minds of the age on my case. His getting better will not magically increase my chances of getting better. And this failure of identification reminds me that I would probably not have to be as anxious as I am about this plague if he and his atrocious crew had not been so completely incompetent and deluded in their handling of the plague in the first place.
According to my phone the Sick President has been in the hospital for three days. During that time a number of medical people and persons on his staff have given updates regarding his condition. Unfortunately, the updates have not been satisfying because of their lack of clarity and at times internal contradictions. They say, for example, the President is only mildly ill, and we are giving him a steroid usually administered to persons whose case is–how to say?–well beyond mild. Or we did administer oxygen though we are sure exactly when. And so on and so forth.
Some of these odd statements were made by doctors, persons with much education and, one would hope, some ethical sense. They nonetheless could not give a clear yes or no to the question about whether the President’s oxygen level had fallen below 80. These doctors were under orders I supposed to obfuscate and not to clarify. Still, one would hope a doctor might have the integrity either to refuse such an order or, instead, tell the truth.