I never used to think about George Lucas and Karl Marx in the same breath, but that was before tonight. Marx nailed it when he said, “History repeats itself, the first time as tragedy, the second time as farce.” As a matter of fact, he didn’t know the half of it. Those of us living in the Trump era know the meaning of “farce” as generations before us never have.
Probably the only person from either history or literature who would be comfortable should she wake up in the Trump era, besides Karl Marx, would be Alice in Wonderland. She could seamlessly adapt to what we see here on a daily basis.
If you think your mind can handle it, here is MAGA God in a phone booth, MAGA Unichapel, the Padre Box. the Robot Confessional, MAGAfied and monetized. Sweet Jesus.
That’s it. I’m out. I’m done for the day. Good night. Just remember one thing. Dan F*cking Rather never brought you quality content like this! pic.twitter.com/hnN5OST31E
— Ron Filipkowski 🇺🇦 (@RonFilipkowski) November 25, 2022
Now, are you gambling people, Zoomers? Because my guess is that this is where Trump goes next. He will be continue to be God In A Box, just like this, and talk to the MAGAs one on one. We’re almost there. We’ve got the box and we’ve got the God. We just need a chair for the rube to sit in.
I think we should have one of these in every bus or railroad station, every airport, in every college campus student union. And how about portable ones, so when a MAGA needs the last rites, s/he can call the nurse to wheel a MAGA Unichapel into the room and she can have the comfort of Trumpty Dumpty as s/he gets ready to cross the Rainbow Bridge.
The possibilities are endless. Here’s Phillip K. Dick’s version from years ago. He called it the Padre Booth.
Getting ready to leave Earth, Joe Fernwright is seized by doubt. Who could he consult at a moment’s notice in any spaceport?
|Getting to his feet he crossed the waiting room to the Padre booth; inside he put a dime into the slot and dialed at random. The marker came to rest at Zen.“Tell me your torments,” the Padre said, in an elderly voice marked with compassion. And slowly; it spoke as if there were no rush, no pressures. All was timeless.
Joe said “I haven’t worked for seven months and now I’ve got a job that takes me out of the Sol system entirely, and I’m afraid. What if I can’t do it? What if I’ve lost my skill?
The Padre’s weightless voice floated back reassuringly to him. “You have worked and not worked. Not working is the hardest work of all.”
That’s what I get for dialing zen, Joe said to himself. Before the Padre could intone further he switched to Puritan Ethic.
“Without work,” the Padre said in a somewhat more forceful voice, “A man is nothing. He ceases to exist.”
|From Galactic Pot-Healer, by Philip K. Dick.|
I don’t know how much weirder it can get and I’m not sure I want to find out. Donald Trump is going beyond P.T. Barnum and more into the realm of Edward D. Wood.