In The Zone



The Twilight of America

September 27, 2018





I often watched The Twilight Zone when I was younger, and not the reruns.  The stories were consistently and stunningly bizarre.  Mind bending tales tenuously tethered to the world as we know it.  Rod Serling was an interesting man with an incredible imagination.  Nothing Serling devised comes close to our current state for sheer unbelievability.

As serial liar, and (probably more than) alleged serial sexual predator/mean drunk Brett Kavanaugh responded to the latest acquisition accusation against him, he said, “This is ridiculous and from The Twilight Zone.”  Does Kavanaugh think The Twilight Zone was a documentary?  Because that is the only way his statement makes any sense.

Kavanaugh’s trained-seal performance in his Fux News interview received lousy reviews, claiming that his controlled, matter-of-fact demeanor, comprised of little more than a string of repeated wall-to-wall talking points, was not that of someone being falsely accused.  Thanks to further coaching, Kavanaugh is now showing a much better level of umbrage, as he attempts to play out his con to the last.  Someone should hold him down against his will and force him to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.  This does not seem to be something that comes easily to this judge.    

Anything is possible…none of it good

 

Many days, I look at the TV and I see a strange orange gas cloud with a, let’s say human, voice.  It says things.  Many things.  Frightening things.  Stupid things.  Unimaginable things.  Every so often I feel challenged to believe what I am seeing is real – usually not more than five or six times a day.  At times, I have to shove bamboo splinters under my fingernails to make sure I’m awake.  Then I realize two things: 1) I am in fact awake, and 2) the excruciating sensation of bamboo splinters under my fingernails is comforting compared to the sensation of admitting that the world actually is what I see in front of me.  And it is all downhill from there.  Then I begin tapping away at my little keyboard, like a starving woodpecker slamming his head against a tree desperately seeking the sustainence necessary to stay alive.  While the woodpecker’s goal is taking food into its body, my pecking is meant to help me to preserve my increasingly tenuous embrace of the reality of the majority, and to evacuate the poisons teeming through my system as a result of incessant exposure to the Toxic Orange Gas Cloud fouling my air, poisoning my soul.  I have not yet literally taken to banging my head against a tree.  I am not ruling anything out though.

Not even Serling could have imagined Chrump

I wish I had the imagination of Rod Serling.  Maybe then I could imagine a world that made some bit of sense.

I. Mangrey rerunning.  Nothing is as it appears, it is considerably worse.