Much of the evil cabal that is the GOP caught the COVID this past week.
It even got its tendrils into Trump, who naturally kept his positive diagnosis under wraps for a while in order to super spread the love before finally being carted off to the hospital.
Yes, for a brief, beautiful moment it seemed whatever algorithm runs this shithole simulation was finally starting to self-correct, to steer things back toward whatever passed for normal before our reality mirrored some spittle-drenched Infowars fever dream. Alas, we can’t be that lucky. Not in 2020. We should’ve known better than to expect something so imbued with poetic justice to be real.
Trump, after a few days being pumped full of paint thinner or bleach or whatever the hell passes for blood inside the dark, sucking hole of his innards, crawled back to the White House, mask off, breathlessly heaving COVID-laced hate halitosis like the sputtering exhaust of a crusty monster truck. Our beast was back and in his stead, the universe took Eddie Van Halen just to remind us that it’s 2020 and we’re all Runnin’ with the Devil.
Seriously though, what kind of cruel tease is this? The New York Times rogues gallery of infected Republican insiders reads like the lineup of a future Hague crimes against humanity trial. Yet none have really fallen sick, not even Chris Christie, who tottered into a hospital for some preventative measures but is so far still crushing bags of candy without a care in the world.
Now, instead of looking up, things are getting darker.
Trump, batty on steroids and high on an experimental cocktail—derived from human fetal tissue—is calling for the prosecution of his political enemies, a feat he no doubt intends to follow through on once the Proud Boys boogaloo their way into a stolen election. Think this civil war shit isn’t getting serious? Tell that to the intricate militia plot to kidnap and ‘put on trial’ Gretchen Whitmer, the Democratic governor of Michigan. Her crimes? Daring to make people wear masks so as to not spread a virus that’s starting to spike again.
Luckily, the FBI busted this ragtag battalion of over-eager white trash before they actually acted, but there are plenty more morons where they came from. It’s a scary time to live in America, and it’s getting harder to believe this spike in nationalism is just the yowling death throes of white patriarchy before it finally falls off Darwin’s ladder and disappears into the depths of history where it belongs.
There are still some glimmers of hope… if you’re foolish or optimistic enough to cling to them. While Trump today refused any further debates unless they’re done in person—the mandate to do them virtually sent him spiralling, but who wants to get shouted at by a bag of COVID in person?—the vice-presidential candidates had their first showdown the other night.
Lacking Trump’s rabid dog theatrics, it was no less tense, with Pence bringing out all the cruelty-disguised-as-civility orations decades of church attendance has imbued him with. Kamala Harris held her own, rebuffing his interruptions from inside her plexiglass display case, but the real star of the show was the single fly who chose, for two long minutes, to land and hang out on Pence’s head. Hilarious? Yes. Random? Potentially, though there are some good theories as to why it may not be.
However you shake it, we’re just a few weeks away from what is unquestionably going to be the most important election in the short, admittedly brutal history of the United States. Things are only gonna get uglier, weirder, and buggier before all this comes to any sort of conclusion. My advice? Stock up on your favorite intoxicants and some canned goods, get those go-bags prepped, and try to maintain what’s left of your sick sense of humor.
See you next week.