By all apparent appearances, the little memo that could ain’t so little.
The Democratic Panic Machine, and all its sulfurous minions, have reacted to the impending release of Devin Nunes’ Remembrance of Barackian Past with a frenzy of spastic, hyper emotional vitriol and flailing push-back. The bleak dystopic vision which the Democrats are promising and warning of once the memo is unveiled, is a flagrant red flag that whatever is entombed in that memo will melt our delicate eyes and cast the Democratic party to the depths of hell; what lives in the unseen text of that memo can only promise a bloodcurdling exposure of American political malfeasance we’ve only nightmared of.
Will this memo be the Pentagon Papers of our generation?
Will another collective, facile fantasy that props up the recursive American Utopian culture that never ends because its consumerist mania is an unquenchable perpetual motion machine, be hobbled by the public release of clear abundance of criminal evidence which screams in our face, “Your reliance on false dreams must die, America. Perish hope. Read. Read and see, all your suspicions and inner fears about your leaders are real. The fantasy is dead.”
The Democratic survival machine is scared shitless. So scared that I really do want to read the memo now. Anything that scares those moribund idiots to such a degree that it triggers them to unleash such a wave of blatant denial as they seek refuge from the truth can’t be all bad. The memo entices anew.
As night dawns, tomorrow beckons and I wonder if Santa Claus will visit with a document in hand.
Will another American falsity be exposed and will our cultural soul die a little more? Will Santa Claus die again?