“No one ever went broke underestimating the intelligence of the American public.”---H.L. Mencken
“The problem with political jokes is they get elected.”---Henry Cate, VIII
A Cautionary Tale
Who’da thunk it was possible? A politically inexperienced billionaire whose celebrity derives from shady real estate deals and a dubious career in television, an inarticulate huckster selling snake-oil cure-alls and promising the moon shucks and jives his way to the highest office in his country.
A womanizer of the First Magnitude, he played upon voters’ nationalism, racist and sexist anxieties, abandoning the political correctness of mainstream candidates. He once dismissed an opponent as too ugly to be considered seriously. He responded to tough questions with outrageous insults, refocusing the conversation on the insults rather than the questions. He outright denied making statements in the face of video evidence to the contrary. And in the end, he sold it to a nation frustrated by political gridlock and eager to blame their own inadequacies on someone else.
His name was Silvio Berlusconi, Italy’s longest-serving prime minister.
For everyone in the United States willing to “sit back and see how it all works out” for the Trump regime, let’s take a look and see what happened to the poor Italians.
Silvio Berlusconi finally left office in 2011 after three terms. In the last week of his reign, the spread between Italian and German bonds went up 574 points, an all-time high, and public debt was 120 percent of Gross Domestic Product. Bad fiscal policy and the absence of promised reforms paralyzed the country. Berlusconi was a fish out of water at summits with democratic partners.
Though he was prevented from enacting his most damaging plans, he succeeded in significantly weakening the rule of law in Italy, particularly with regard to fiscal issues. Berlusconi left behind a country in which anyone who cooks the books or seeks to embezzle or defraud can do so knowing their activities are no longer illegal. Nonetheless, during most of his term he was able to convince the public that he was the victim of politically motivated prosecutors. Some people buy the pie when they need the potatoes.
Italy’s 2008 credit crunch eventually led to a GDP plunge of 5.2 percent the following year, wiping out the tiny economic progress of a full decade. The effects of that year’s recession finally triggered a slide in Berlusconi’s popularity which was never reversed. By the eurozone crisis of 2011, the public realized he was out of his depth and abandoned him. By that time, Italy had hit bottom, only outstripped in European financial desperation by the woeful Greek government, itself by then a stepchild of the World Bank.
As much as Berlusconi damaged his own country, frustrated his European economic partners and clearly illustrated the problems an inept, totally unqualified political hack can generate, at least he never presented any threat to the rest of the world, unlike Donald Trump. The United States’ economic engine primarily pulls the international cart, its military is influential and omnipresent, its behavior on climate control matters is critical. Trump seems disposed to delegate responsibility in all these areas to nincompoops or worse, so the possibilities of disaster are endless. Citizens who sit idly by waiting to see how the Trump Era plays out are naive in the extreme. Critics of the protests in the streets and the upcoming marches on Washington who cite the futility of these actions need look no further than the Civil Rights demonstrations and the Vietnam War protests of the 1960s to realize how taking to the streets can change the course of a nation. The new government is Godzilla unleashed, a thoughtless calamity, a reverse Robin Hood which will gleefully take from the poor and give to the rich. In the face of all this, Thomas Jefferson, as usual, had an answer:
“When injustice becomes law, resistance becomes duty.”
Are you going to argue with Thomas Jefferson?
Silvio—that merry man of mirth.
The Million Everybody March
Why do the women have to carry the ball for the rest of us? Granted, they’ve been duly ignored and insulted, a fact which seems to escape the Odd Legion of Trump Barbies, but haven’t we all been ignored and insulted? With Trump’s choice for Attorney General being a life-long anti-marijuana fanatic, I’m expecting to see The Million Potheads March before long, with Chuck LeMasters right up there at the head of the agrarian conga line. The march, itself, will provide a clever diversion for The Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers and other advocates of The Weed to sneak into the Capitol building and place scads of stinkbombs in the congressional locker rooms, symbolizing the aroma they’ve foisted on their constituents.
This revelry will be followed by the more somber Million Indians March, during which the District of Columbia will be overwhelmed by more Native Americans than have ever stood in one place together since that ugly business at Little Big Horn. The Indians will be creating jobs, by the way, unlike the moribund Trump administration. They’re bringing their horses, and the District will require hundreds of temporary employees in Waste Removal. Not to mention, shovel sales should spike. The tribes, which total 6.6 million counting Native Alaskans, will surround the Capitol with an enormous Drum Circle, which will not stop pounding away until their concerns are tended to. Buffy St. Marie will sing “Where have the buffalo gone?” each day at noon. Smoke lodges will be available for the potheads at a reasonable fee. Local McDonalds’ franchises are offering half-price McNuggets to anyone showing a feather.
After all this, it will be time for the Million Queers March. Look, this isn’t my description, it’s theirs, so lay off. The gays didn’t think they could work LGBTQ into anything suitable in combination with “million,” alright? “Queers” has more pizzaz and they’re allowed to call themselves anything they want—African-Americans do it all the time. Anyway, as we all know, gay people like to parade in the alltogether, so everybody in this parade will be naked except for shy people who will wear Saran Wrap. Many of the paraders will carry poster-sized photographs of all the senators and representatives with whom they’ve had carnal relations, extra copies of which may be procured after the festivities. The traveling company of Kinky Boots will put on a post-parade performance at the Washington Monument.
That should take care of just about everybody except the Hispanics, who will parade together at the Million Mexican March. You don’t want to miss this one, the variety of accompanying food trucks will be outstanding. Mariachi bands in full uniform will be everywhere, singing all your favorite songs for a dollar. If they don’t happen to know all your favorite songs, which they won’t, they will sing “Cielito Lindo,” which is a very nice song, itself, the first 200 times you hear it. Free tacos from Taco Bell for the first thousand marchers. Half-priced Carta Blanca beers will be available from street kiosks. After the parade, the Mexicans will build a wall of pork enchiladas around the White House and Donald Trump will pay for it.
Road Trip
As everybody knows, of course, all work and no play makes Jack a dull boy and Jacqueline a sullen young lady. There is no reason, therefore, that all this protesting must be merely a bore, a chore, with no redeeming recreational value. While some take a plane and some take a train to lovely Washington, D.C., most of you will be planning an exciting Road Trip. Ah, yes, a colorful excursion through the campy speed traps of North Florida (and whatever happened to that roadside petting zoo with the giraffe out front?), the pecan groves of Georgia and the palmettos of South Carolina to our first stop at fun-filled South of the Border, just a smidge below the North Carolina line on I-95. You never have to worry about missing SOTB because Pedro has been advising you of its whereabouts on giant billboards 100 miles north and south of the place.
The site is 350-acre compound containing a miniature golf course, a truck stop, a 300-room motel, a campground, several restaurants, amusement rides, a reptile zoo, a 200-foot observation tower with a sombrero-shaped observation deck and more souvenir shops than you can shake your maracas at. South of the Border likes to emphasize its gigantic Fireworks Department, a remnant of the days fireworks were illegal in neighboring North Carolina.
South of the Border was developed by Alan Schafer in 1950. The place originated as a beer stand adjacent to Robeson County, one of many dry N.C. counties, eventually expanding into an island of trinket shops and kitsch items imported from Mexico. A motel opened in 1954 and in 1962 the site expanded into a large fireworks market. At that time, U.S. 301 fed the monster. In 1964, it was announced the route for I-95 would pass hard by South of the Border with the facility being right next to two exits. From that time, the expansion was full go. Not that the codger brigade traveling to Washington has to worry about it but it is impossible to pass South of the Border with a child under 12 in the car without facing a hysterical reaction involving banshee-like wailing, weeping and the gnashing of teeth. It’s a sight noone wants to experience.
Soon, we arrive in beautiful Washington where we circle around for five hours, looking for a place to park. If we find one, we leave our vehicle there for the duration of our stay and resort to public transportation, which is imperfect but adequate. The Metro (subway) is quick and dependable but does not extend to all the places a rider might want to go; the buses fill in the spaces. Taxis are not unduly expensive. The District is a great place for walking if you watch where you walk. Overrated Georgetown, once an inventive haven of small local shops, is now filled with a gaggle of expensive chain stores, so take your business elsewhere. Most of your fun, after all, will be with your peers, enjoying the collegiality of co-demonstrators, the doobie throws, the sleeping-bag sex. Just like a rock festival without the music.
Eventually, of course, will come the time for serious business. On the morning of January 21st, The Million Women March will begin and the swelling mass of humanity will head for the National Mall in full throat, obnoxious signs hoisted to the skies, a chanting, singing river of resistance to the newly-minted administration, a ringing reminder that the masses will not lie down and play dead. Angry young college girls, outraged working women, pissed-off senior citizens in comfortable walking shoes, all carrying pies and searching for targets. Participants will never forget it and abstainers will live to regret it. They’ve got the fever! They’re hot! They can’t be stopped! Ah, these women! What would we do without them?
That’s all, folks….
