by James Howard Kunstler, Kunstler:
Hallelujahs echoed across the Blue Media late last week when the news broke that Donald Trump tested positive for coronavirus. For four years the president had foiled every ambuscade set along his path by a morally-inflamed, predatory Resistance, and each time he beep-beeped his way around the trap. But, now, with a little help from a pitiless universe, they had him! A gazillion tiny, viral assassins were stealing through his bloodstream like so many microscopic jihadis, primping him for an agonizing death: his alveoli withering, red corpuscles robbed of their vital O2, pink foam issuing from his nostrils, toes and fingers turning blue-green — and most deliciously of all, he’d remain conscious of his imminent defeat, of the life (which he’d never deserved in the first place) draining by degrees from his wicked, orange, bloated, supine carcass…
Except… wait a minute… what the hell…? How could it be! Late Sunday he somehow arose from his bed-of-death, ordered pizza (with meat!) for a thousand imps and demons camped outside Walter Reed Hospital, and walked under his own power (!) into a limousine to take a ride around the block and wave at his unholy minions! The cheek of this man!
CNN had a whack attack. Brian Stelter was beside himself, hinting that sinister forces had punked the network, and all the other righteous Resistance cadres, and that Mr. Trump could be endangering every federal employee down to the enlisted men posted overseas by venturing from his sickroom. The New York Times went farther afield (of course), declaring that “the murky and shifting narrative of his illness was rewritten again with grim new details.” Nicely put by an outfit that has come to specialize in shifting narratives!
And indeed, the new Resistance narrative demands to know just exactly when did the president start to feel ill? Did he, perhaps on-purpose, haul his ailing, hulking, scheming Golem ass into the Cleveland debate venue with the hope of infecting his rival, delicate Ol’ White Joe Biden? Did he recklessly put at risk the White House staff, dignitaries and luminaries coming and going, their family members, associates, underlings, servants, children? Did he threaten the global order, world peace, the fate of humanity?
So now, a keening wail of lamentation rings out across the land at Mr. Trump’s possible, dastardly recovery. How dare he! — to paraphrase Saint Greta Thunberg. 209,000 other Americans died, and not him! What vile and unholy devices got him out of a sure death sentence? No doubt Democratic Party astrologasters and consulting augurers will be searching for clues among the orbiting planets and the spilled organs of sacrificed chickens in the days to come. Perhaps Rep. Adam Schiff (D-CA) can snare a few of the president’s attending physicians into his House Intel Committee and rev up another impeachment for going against doctors’ orders. Wouldn’t that be a delectable counter to the looming confirmation process for Ruth Bader Ginsburg’s replacement next door in the Senate this month?
Over his dead body, Senate Minority Leader Chuck Schumer is hinting — a tantalizing prospect, with Covid-19 on the loose. It was Chuck who memorably told Rachel Maddow of MSNBC in 2017 that the Deep State “has six ways from [sic] Sunday at getting back at you.” By my count, they’re well over their allotted six by now. Not only did they all fail, but the seditionists behind them are liable to wind up behind bars before this is all over, perhaps even a few of Senator Schumer’s colleagues.