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'Hate Has No Home Here', said the lawn signs in Bob's white suburban Washington neighborhood, a reference to racism, homophobia, and misogyny; but the irony was lost on him as he seethed venomous hatred at the white fools who had elected Trump. This animus was not hatred, he reasoned, because it was righteous anger. He was a good person.

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Most conservatives have once and for all stopped calling liberals progressives, for nothing in their bag of tricks is forward-looking and promising. They are Utopian idealists at best who have been shown the door and won't be back for a long, long while.

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Wha' happened', said a lawyer tossing down another shot of Wild Turkey at the bar of the Olde Ebbitt Grill, two blocks from the White House and watering hole of Biden/Harris people. 'Didn' see it coming'; and there it was in a nutshell. The fools never saw it coming, overreached, overestimated and shat on the voters who could have made a difference. 'We'll get 'em next time', the lawyer said as he stumbled his way out to Pennsylvania Avenue. 'Next time.'

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More than anything the progressive culture of moroseness will be gone. No more breast-beating, rending of garments, wails of grief and misery. America's genius will be celebrated. There will be all-night, bright and sparkling Gatsby-esque parties. Glitz, glamour, and beauty will be back.

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Harris is still in hiding. Congratulations would be a sign of capitulation to Nazi terror. 'I was supposed to be elected. I was supposed to be the first woman to sit in the Oval Office. There must be something I can do. Think, Kamala, think!!!'

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America had passed him by. He was social detritus, leavings, insignificant, noticed by no one. Insurrectionist? If only he had been, it would have been some record of having belonged. As it was he was trash

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'Fuck 'em', he said to no one in particular, and so it was that because of the indiscretions of Frs. Brophy and Peacock Harry became a practicing atheist.

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If the new President is Madame, she will bang around the Oval Office imagining what leadership is supposed to be without a clue; and if it is Trump there will be some changes made, by golly

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'A menagerie', quipped one political observer who thought he had seen everything in the way of vacuous politicians. When the feral assortment of Cabinet hopefuls was leaked, he had a field day. 'The most absurd collection of misfit, wrong, caricatures of diversity ever..'

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Unfortunately someone has to win this Presidential election - there is no Churchill, Napoleon, or de Gaulle running. We are stuck between bombast and sanctimony, the worst kind of a rock and a hard place, but it is all of our own making. 'Is this the best you can do?' ask foreign observers. What a question. Of course it is.

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Kamala Harris is the right person to lead the progressive charge, but exactly the wrong one to lead the country. Her black womanhood will only be a footnote to history, a diverting commentary on the politics of the early 21st century and nothing more.

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So, a week before the election, the show goes on - bombast, braggadocio, big top lion-taming and high-wire acts; and immeasurably incoherent homilies, metaphors, and allusions. Only one can win, and anyone paying attention knows who that will be

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If Trump wins, all the treacly, meaningless ribbons of progressive Utopianism will finally be tossed into the dumpster; but Harry never gave defeat a second thought. 'We will prevail' he said before turning out the lights  

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KAMALA GOES 'ROUND THE BEND - THE LAST DAYS OF A HYSTERICAL WOMAN 'When will it end?', a five-year old was heard saying to her mother on a park bench in Lafayette Square, across from the White House, referring to the endless hawking and barking of the Vice President. 'Soon, my love, soon'.

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Luckily the reality of it all - a life that nobody really cared about, all his social activism either for naught or coopted by goons and comers, an existence as pedestrian and unremarkable as any - came only much later

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'I was at Auschwitz', said Hyman Rubenstein. He had been herded into the showers when the Americans liberated the camp. Skeletal, naked, hollow-eyed, and tearful, he ran to the gates and for the first time in four years, smiled. 'Trump is no fascist'.

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Yale, now in line with every vocational school, cow town junior college, and third rate midwestern college, could only rest on its laurels for so long; and after a while this descent into a nightmarish woke madness slowed.