MAYDAYS — REPRISED

Imagine a Twilight Zone-like, Brave New World; a post-dystopian, dystopia, further devolved. An Animal Farm some time, post-1984. Imagine us. Then imagine a sure way forward; a tall tale

story with a joyous, happy ending. For this too shall pass, just as surely as pass time’s seasons and seconds. And albeit ye may not believe me, true actually, is what some say is — a tall tale.

Tragic, as ever. Comic, more recently. And tragi-comic, still. Until Kim and Don’s falling bombs, perhaps some day, leave ye with a day’s remains — for the rest of yer life — sustaining.

Tragic. And comic. And near idyllic, for one, percent. And for the remaining, struggling ninety-nine, percent, fifty shades of intolerable, tolerating. A tipping point — has been tipping.

Ye who so obliviously race, through space, are as a consequence of your obliviousness, literally racing now, against time, so inexorably, relentless. Time takes its time. It’s not — racing.

Prologs, to epilogs, are actions. And omissions to act. Ominously, the Donald’s revealing, gaffes, less comically than tragically, to ye, revealing. Ominously, the Donald is revealing,

his colors, and his color, to ye. Red, white and blue. And white, respectively. His father’s KKK sympathies aside, their discrimination against blacks in housing show that the Donald’s allies

favor some, over others. Donald clearly favors some (white nationalist) citizens, over others. Considered objectively, Kim does so too. Cyber spy-fly, Buzz, Arthur’s crime-busting, insect ally,

has their taped words and acts, confirming, as much. Both feel trapped. Both are unfit. And neither of them can be trusted, to do the right thing. Feeling ever trapped and unfit — they lie

a lot; even to their allies. Friend and enemy alike know better than to unduly trust them. It has nothing to do with right and wrong. It’s about juvenile bragging rights between allies.

One of the richest ironies is the happenstance that, everything having been predetermined, everything‘s, rigged; indeed imagine everything that’s happening and moreover everything

that’s ever happened, to have been, predetermined. It’s shockingly practical to so imagine it. So let’s just imagine it. Look at it as — from Occam’s Razor, an invaluable, shaving.

If I lose the election millions of my voters will buy my claim that I was cheated. If I win, millions of Democrats will believe, in stark contrast, that I’m the one, who cheated.

Either way, our trust in elections, the bedrock principle of democracy, will be eroded by one who, with impunity hath always, just so, unabashedly — nay — proudly, cheated.

GOOD, NOT FAKE, NEWS

I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a surreal surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, a surprise opportunity disguised as a predicament. A really lucky year

of the rat, surprise. But wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when an aged forest burns only to give way to a renewed pristine forest only to once again in stages, age over the years.

Bombshell tapes and bombshell books are of no effect against me. I’ll just deflect and deny and genuflect and parry. And self-defensively lie if I have to. In my autobiographical satire,

MAYDAYS, though, I shall get the better of me. Using my own words and thoughts; to slice and dice and savage me; so, coming soon to a coffee table near ye, a most compelling, satire.

It’s nothing less than miraculous; that all those who shake my hand, mysteriously accursed, become. But they say that all roads, eventually, lead to Rome. Ironically, my sure hands,

may yet the planet, save. Still, it’s the sovereign district of New York whose prosecutors want to slap handcuffs on my so apparently magical — and miracle-working, undersized — hands. 

DeJoy admits that he has no intention of replacing the sorting machines, blue mailboxes and other key postal mailing infrastructure that postal employees have been publicly removing

and that overtime payment plans so critical to the timely delivery of mail, is not in the offing. It’s highway robbery. We’ll see about mail sorters — decommissioned, recommissioning.

The North Korean government is reportedly ordering its more “decadent” citizens to hand over their pet dogs so that a hungry public can eat. Dangogi, a spicy soup made from dog

meat is a historically popular dish in both Koreas, A dog’s life; it doesn’t mean in the Koreas what it may mean, elsewhere. Americans, love their dogs. Koreans, like dog.

One of the richest ironies is the happenstance that, everything having been predetermined, everything‘s, rigged; indeed imagine everything that’s happening and moreover everything

that’s ever happened, to have been, predetermined. It’s shockingly practical to so imagine it. So let’s just imagine it. Look at it as — from Occam’s Razor, an invaluable, shaving.

I’ve got good news for ye; really, good news; a surreal surprise for a modern man, reprised. The virus is a present, a surprise opportunity disguised as a predicament. A really lucky year

of the rat, surprise. But wise men know that it’s just nature’s way; as when an aged forest burns only to give way to a renewed pristine forest only to once again in stages, age over the years.

A SURPRISE ENDORSEMENT

Tuesday, March 4, 2030: Because it is both a calendar date and a command, I’ve got a date in mind for Urantia‘s citizens’ inaugural celebration of their first, Global Citizenship Day. 

On Tuesday, March 4, in the year of Allah God Jehovah Yahweh. 2030. A perfect fit. And the surreal irony of it all, is not at all, lost upon me. From America First, a Global Citizenship — Day.

No, ironies are not, upon me, lost. Magnificent, is His timing; Carl Jung’s synchronicities serve to accentuate that magnificence, suggesting that perhaps, indeed, that’s their purpose, everyday.

The synchronicities are clues; clues to what’s happening; clues to this incomprehensibly baffling mix of predeterminations, free will, miracles aplenty and magic apparent everyday.

That — speak volumes. For I’m either an idiot, or an idiot, savant. A wrecking ball or wrecking ball precursor, antecedent to a transcendental, transformation’s — belated — reconstruction.

With Election Day fast approaching, I want to speak clearly, as I often don’t do to my sallow, fellow, Americans. TV has had a dramatic effect on me; a chronic condition; my prevarications.

Not as threatening to me as it is, believe ye me, to the nation. Too much TV-watching has had a tragi-comic effect on me. Witness; much taken was I with my hero the eloquent sailor, Popeye.

Popeye‘s why I like to say I ams what I ams; that’s part of the comic part. Then — there’s Iran. The made for TV — 444 days. Verily, TV hath left an indelible mark on me, bye and bye.

The point of this verse, inter alia, is to declare my unfitness to hold the office I do in fact hold. Pursuant to my agreement with Arthur; to say, unequivocally, I’m sick and tired of being unfit.

Too sick and let me be perfectly clear; indeed, too clinically mentally ill am I, to be a president. Indeed I have been from the very beginning of my presidency, all along, mentally ill, and unfit.

That’s not to say that I’m not a genius. There’s no denying that. It’s just to say that for serving as the president of a nation — mind ye — any nation, I am — most supremely — uber-unfit.

And so in lieu of resignation, I offer instead an unequivocal endorsement of my esteemed opponent, the most honorable most Sleepy, Joe Biden. Personally, I don’t sleep but I am, unfit.

Sign me in closing, your favorite president, President Tweety Trump; and post-script it, Sorry, Sleepy, about all that Ukrainian-Hunter, stuff. I was just kidding. Don’t even bother to

investigate me; nor investigate anybody in my family; not Barbie; not Ken. By the way, I’ve taken the liberty of offering and accepting from myself, a presidential pardon — already — too.

HIGHER EDUCATION

I am outta here. Good luck Joe. Be honest, always, with the people. Ne’er lie to them. And check back in here for your updates, daily. But if I somehow win in November, all bets are off.

This epic poem I hereby gift ye, explains, a lot. Not just why I’m undertaking the risk of leaving DC’s unlucky Chinese year of the rat to ye but also why I’m undertaking to take some time off.

More on that later; lots more. For now I am so, outta here. I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Treasure the poem. Barack gifted it to me, George Bush having previously presented it to him. Treasure 

it Joe. Refer to and defer to it. I wish, I had. But only my hindsight is 20-20. Leave it to the children. Just not, the Beaver. But natural leaders, just like everybody else, are measured

different from the follower rest of ye. Most follow where leaders, lead. But some are their own leader. Leaders like Greta. She may well, in due time, lead us to, a brand new, perspective.

There is a vast potential, not in plain sight, but hidden. Hidden as if in the bowels of an algorithm. Almost perfectly hidden. Things placed in bowels, are well hidden, irrespective.

But relax; algorithms, unlike bowels, are really super-duper, clean — metaphysical — things. The children may be just the open, sponge-like minds mankind needs to see the persuasive

value in poetry. Leave it surely, to the children. Some say I’m not perfect; but reasonable men, may differ. I’ve made a commitment to Arthur, a second class, American citizen — persuasive.

Enter the dragon. No; the dragon’s not the so-called, novel, coronavirus. The dragon is Arthur and he has entered as dragons are wont to do; spitting — hot ash and spitting — hotter, fire.

Abraham Lincoln earned his eventual political stature to due to an ability to compromise and supreme confidence. George Washington, a close reading of history — reveals — a higher,

calling. To my chagrin, I’d done no real work to earn my wealth. Been getting enrichened, since I was a toddler. Like Citizen Kane, my wealth had been a mere stepping stone, to my power.

But what good can power really do? Indeed, what good can power do, I have often thought even as I have done, wrong. Now, however, second thoughts — empower me — further.

I’m having second thoughts. Excellent, second thoughts. I’m studying composition at Arthur’s very much besought School of Poetry. He in turn, studied ethics at my Trump University.

Now defunct, once upon a time, it was as well,
much besought and very highly, regarded, amongst the subset seeking an e=mc2-type formula to success, once upon a time, formerly.

THE PLAN IN A NUTSHELL

Whether or not Arthur’s alleged electrocution actually happened I can’t say. I wasn’t there. Nor can I say with any certainty that that’s when it happened that Arthur began versing.

And I wasn’t there either when Arthur alleges he had his Archimedean, EUREKA moment, in his bathtub and then promptly went and got himself arrested, by a policewoman, arresting.

The arresting policewoman, a good-looking one also, indeed did Arthur arrest. But I’ll say this, if only to end any debate as to what’s happening here. Arthur’s verse, truly is, miraculous, verse.

Dissolve the UN; one nation, reconvene. One Rule per nation; each nation its own; everybody gets her or his Basic Income, Universal. What pray tell is the globally, universal Rule, in verse?

The universal Rule that the nations need rule and be ruled by — a poetic verse itself — is none other than our very much beloved albeit, our very much underutilized — Golden Rule.

Dissolve the UN. One nation, reconvene. And decree the Golden Rule to be the Law in every nation. And everyone on the planet gets his or her Universal Basic Income — pursuant to Rule.

In these crises multi-task, efficiently. Follow the data. And the science. Let’s let tech help us to crunch the numbers. Let us aspire to well use everyone. And aspire — also, to lose — no one.

It’s 2020. Set 2030 as the inaugural GCD; the 1st global citizenship day. I’ll be there, God willing; and never mind Congress. Because March 4th is both a date and a command — to everyone.

March 4th; both a date and a command; to celebrate citizenship and to recall, perhaps, when more myopic men than I ruled. And I’ll be there if can just scrap these illegal, term limits.

Seize the day; but for God’s sake have a plan around. All my blather of instinct and gut feelings, sounds discomfortingly digestive than battlefield — instinctive. A man, has his limits.

Notwithstanding a cacophony of bellyaching sounds, sounds most unbecoming to many, my approval ratings are rising again. Coming soon; dramatic plot twists — in an American tall tale;

of four antiheroic dictators and a More-Mart greeter — hero. Four for humanity we’d have ye believe we are. But with Art — we are five not four, looking for Nobels for we four, failed, 

antiheroes. I know I’m not paranoid because I know they’re really out to get me; the deep state; other states too. China and Iran go out of their way — especially to bedevil — me as well.

Dissolve the UN. One nation, reconvene. Decree the Golden Rule to be the Law in every nation. Everyone on the planet gets his or her UIB pursuant to Rule. It’s the plan, in a nutshell.

A PILGRIM’S PROGRESS 

Only I, The Donald dareth say that I’m not dying but going alive to where my Creator resides. Only I dare say that, like Elijah I am going there directly and that I am going there alive, at that.

In the wake of Beirut, Hiroshima and Nagasaki, this week, weigh heavily, upon me. But nobody really believes that I really believe that. Some say nobody believes me. But who believes that?

What makes an inhuman act immoral if ye lose and not immoral if ye win? A question as relevant today and in today’s wars as it was about Hiroshima and Nagasaki. History is not 

written only by the victors, who win. History no longer is written exclusively by the winning victors. Progress; albeit too little, and perhaps, too late. What makes victors’ criminal acts, not

immoral? Imagine a planet utopian not like this Earth, dystopian. A pilgrim’s progress — to the reader — victor. History no longer is written exclusively by the winning victors. Progress;

albeit too little too late. What makes the victors’ criminal acts, not immoral? Imagine a planet utopian not dystopian. It’s the 1st step in a pilgrim’s progress for the reader. It’s progress.

What makes the victors’ criminal acts not immoral everywhere? Boldly planning on going boldly, to Heaven — to Heaven where no man has ere so dreamt of going. That’s where I dare

say I’m going, more or less like Elijah, directly. And if ye are reading my soliloquy, I’m already, halfway there. Only I, Donald John Trump, dare say that I’m going to Heaven; there, where

my Creator resides. Moreover, I dare say I’m going directly there, more or less like Elijah. If that seems implausible, I’m halfway there. And if ye are reading my soliloquy I’m almost, there.

The Lord and the Founding Fathers created executive orders because of partisan bickering and divided government. Orders, executive; they’re just what the doctor orders where there

is no legislation, or legislation‘s too slow. I know that to be true because I too was there with the Lord and with the Founding Fathers. In the spirit, anyway. Only I, The Donald dareth say

that I’m not dying but going alive to where my Creator resides. Only I dare say that, like Elijah I am going there directly and that I am going there alive — at that. How dare anyone gainsay 

or naysay me? Lock him up. Lock her up too. Lock them all up, Because first they’ll come for the rich; then they’ll come for the white nationalists; then for real estate developers.

I’ll neither hang nor go to jail. I’m helping him that’ll put in a good word for us when they come for us. But for now fear of viruses pales next to the wannabe assassins, stalking Arthur.

PURPOSES

Allegorically, MAYDAYS’ settings — Earth and Luna — and its characters — and its plot devices, are intended to illuminate, whatever in Hell, on on Earth is happening. That’s why my

long-winded soliloquy about soirées on Luna is especially characterized by tweets of exactly, 280, characters. It’s the public health, stupid. I denounce — and renounce — tonight — my

alter ego’s earlier statements made on this Independence Day, the very first global, such day. One such plot device is the atmosphere, lunar. Only truth is spoken in the absence of air 

up there. In stark contrast, on Earth, lies fill the air, everyday. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to illuminate and call out whatever in the Hell on Earth, is there

actually, happening. My true account of my soirées on Luna with my frenemy, dictatorial, friends, especially characterized by a sing-song, musical cadence, conducive to epigramming.

MAYDAYS; its my soliloquy; about soirées on Luna, and our forever, troubles, on Earth; with my frenemy characters; in characters, 280; even as everywhere strongmen are colluding 

against me and looking to kill my disgruntled and whistleblowing, Puerto Rican brother — Arthur. I looked up fascism.’ It’s a philosophy, political, movement or regime (like the Fascisti)

that exalts nation and often race, above, the individual. And I do seem to be, as virulently fascist, as any former — Fascisti. They came first for the Gypsies — then Jews — then me.

Weeks ago, an asteroid exploded over Tokyo; a smaller version of the one that wiped out the dinosaurs once upon, a long time, ago. We don’t actually know where and when in the Hell

the smaller asteroids are coming. When they get here they often let us know. MAYDAYS’ settings, characters and plot devices are meant to blow the whistle on what’s happening in Hell

on Earth. More importantly it sets forth the previously unknown story of how my lover Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the Earth from going to — or merely becoming — Hell.

I am anxious to tell, within the larger story, the previously unknown story of how Kim has helped me craft a plan, to save the Earth from going to — or merely becoming on Earth, Hell.

Kim’s helped me craft a plan to save the Earth from going to, or God forbid becoming, on Earth an unholy Hell. And so I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim yourselves, personally.

I’m calling on the children to tweet to Kim their personal messages; in groups; and individually. Tweet to him; and Xi; and Vladimir. If they did so that would be some would say, newsworthy.

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