Believe I’ll skip the predictions this new year.
Yeah, I’ve had visions of the future. Lot’s of ’em. My prostate may not be working like it used to, but my foretelling glands are as active as they’ve ever been. Maybe more so. It’s like, sometimes—especially since November 8—I get eight or nine oracular visitations an hour! Hell, I bet I could come up with 30 or 40 full-length blog posts just from what I’ve foreseen so far.
But … nah. Trust me. You don’t want to know.
However, there is this one aspect of our in-coming disaster that I feel you all ought to be aware of. It has to do with why the Trump thing—or as I’ve taken to calling him, “Putin’s Punk”—hasn’t been holding press conferences or meeting with intelligence officers for regular briefings. Furthermore, it’s the same reason that, even after the inauguration, I don’t believe we’ll be seeing a lot of pictures with Pee Pee sitting at the center of that big-ass conference table, addressing his Cabinet.
The deal is, someone is trying to make sure he doesn’t get himself into any situation where he’s the dumbest guy in the room.
Yes, that’s right. It came to me in one of those Edgar Cayce episodes I am prone to whenever I go down for a nap (especially after I’ve had tuna salad for lunch). This one came the same day Pee Pee held that phony press conference were he answered a couple of questions with Don King at his side. He sure likes to be seen with other celebrities, doesn’t he? Even if they are hucksters and idiots.
Anyway, I was just about to drift off into Nappy-Land when out of a wispy cloud of prognostication vapors came a vision of this huge … like … lecture hall-type room. You know, where the semi-circular rows of seats climb up and away from a central stage? It was like that, only, as I said, it was huge. And all the seats were full of the smartest people in the world. Scientists, philosophers, historians, mathematicians, artists. And they weren’t all alive, either. At least, not in the sense that they’re still around.
Like, Einstein was there, sitting in a group with Stephen Hawking, Carl Sagan, Marie Curie and my old friend Bob Matthews from college days. Darwin was there, next to my junior high biology teacher Mr. Sweet, and Carl Linnaeus. (I couldn’t help but notice their conversation was constantly evolving, ha ha.)
Dan Rather was there, too, in the same row with Walter Cronkite and Edward R. Murrow, and they seemed to be getting along just fine. Phillip K. Dick was way up on the top tier, milling about with H.G. Welles, Arthur Conan Doyle, Isaac Asimov and Neil deGrasse Tyson. It was great to see them all together. They were whispering back and forth like excited little kids about stuff like time travel and black holes.
Down closer to that stage was mostly politicians. Lincoln and Jefferson were mixing it up with Obama and Mahatma Gandhi and James Carville. Isaac Newton was there with them. Don’t know why he wasn’t over with Einstein group, but maybe it was nothing more than he got there late and took the only seat he could find.
Johann Bach was there, as was Bill Shakespeare and Voltaire. And Stephen Sondheim. And Maggie Smith … you know, from Downton Abbey … and Hillary Clinton and Galileo and Mark Twain and Nelson Mandela and James Baldwin and Elon Musk, Aristotle, Betty Freidan, Eleanor Roosevelt, Bill Gates, Meryl Streep, John Muir and Leonardo … oh, jeez, I’d guess there were five or six hundred people there. Probably more. There were people off in the shadows, and I had no idea how far the shadows went.
But the thing is, every last one of them was a genius of some sort. They weren’t all the same kind of genius, of course. Like, the only thing Warren Buffet has in common with Emily Dickinson (who was giggling about something with J.K. Rowling) is that, even though they come from entirely different corners of the human experience, they’re both geniuses at what they do. Or did. Get it?
So anyway, that’s why they were all there, together, in that lecture hall. Hundreds, maybe thousands, of the biggest brains, original thinkers, inspired creators, all gathered in one place, representing centuries of human progress and ingenuity and transcendence, waiting for … well, that part wasn’t so clear. Not at first.
I mean really, when you get that much smarts concentrated in one room waiting for something, you would naturally expect it would be a pretty darn smart thing they were waiting for, wouldn’t you? And that’s the weird part of it, because the only things on that stage was a lectern with a microphone, and a big TRUMP banner on the wall in back. And I’ll be damned if that’s not what they were waiting for—Donald Trump to come out and speak.
Well, finally, he did. Or I should say, he came, but he didn’t actually speak. See, he came out from behind a curtain, stage left, looking up at all those geniuses and exemplary people with that smug, jut-jawed lizard grimace we’ve all seen in his rallies. You know the look I mean. It’s like by his expression, alone, he is saying “AND NOW … what you’ve been waiting for … ME! “
So he came out, but he didn’t get very far. He hadn’t taken two steps from that curtain when a hand comes out from behind it, grabs him by the collar, and hauls him back. And we all heard what the person behind that hand said, quite clearly, since nobody was clapping or cheering or anything. No kidding, as soon as Trump appeared on stage, all those geniuses went as quiet as church mice. They weren’t about to clap for Pee Pee, not hardly. They were there only to hear what he had to say for himself.
Which is why we heard so distinctly what the person behind the curtain said. He—or maybe it was a she with a raspy voice—said, “Are you fucking nuts! You can’t go out there! Those smart asses will eat you alive!”
And what this tells me, in prophecy-speak, is that we won’t be seeing a lot of Trump sitting with his Cabinet discussing important shit, or holding real, honest press conferences. And I am convinced it’s the same reason he won’t be spending much time with intelligence briefers or military brass. And most likely, anytime he meets another world leader like Angela Merkel or that Trudeau cat from Canada, it’ll be a handshake, a two-minute pose for pictures, and he’s outa there.
It’s all because somebody in his inner circle has a mission: Keep Pee Pee as far away from smart people as it is possible for a U.S. President to be!
We can be assured it’s not something he’s doing himself. Really, if there’s anything about Trump we can be absolutely sure of, it’s that he isn’t anywhere near to being smart enough to know what a dumbass he is. He actually believes he out-smarted Hillary and Obama and everyone else. He actually believes he’s smarter than generals and economists and the CIA and FBI and virtually everyone whose job it is to be learned, nuanced and sophisticated in their thinking. That is how stupid this jerk-off is.
So it has to be someone there with him all the time. Maybe one of his kids, but I doubt that. Look into those dull eyes of Donald Jr., Eric or Ivanka and tell me you think they are any smarter than Daddy.
No, it has to be someone smart enough to know that reporters and journalists don’t get chosen for the White House press corps without being pretty darn sharp. Same with intelligence officers. We may not be talking about geniuses here, but you don’t have to be a genius to still be way, way, waaaaay smarter than Donald Trump, do you?
Obviously, it going to be a problem for him anytime he can’t avoid meeting with some of his Cabinet picks. I mean, some of those guys—Rex Tillerson, good example—may be cut-throat pirates who would sell their mothers to cannibals if it meant obtaining drilling rights or insider info. But the truth is, you don’t get to be CEO of Exxon by being a dope.
So, if my oracular visitation is right … that Pee Pee will be managed like an organ grinder’s monkey in public … don’t look for him to spend much of the future in the company of anyone you might respect, however begrudgingly, for their intelligence. Instead, we can expect him to be trotted out two or three times a week with more Don King-ish figures. Hucksters, idiots, hand-licking monkeys, ass-kissing clowns … human travesties … anyone and everyone next to whom our next president would look almost presidential.
Mike Huckabee and Newt Gingrich, for instance. And Bill O’Reilly. The Duck Dynasty bunch and the Kardashians. That fat thug Alex Jones and a lot of washed-up actors (don’t be surprised to see Steven Seagal a lot, as a little birdie told me he will be appointed head of the Secret Service). Z-list talent like Elvis impersonators and mimes and, of course, Mike Pence.
There will be beauty contestants galore, and professional wrestlers—I see a great deal of Hulk Hogan in our nation’s future—and, of course, sports figures. Not the ones with iron-clad integrity, but how many sports figures does that include?
And there will be soldiers, we can count on that— ordered by their commanders to show respect to the Commander-in-Chief, regardless of how many wars he gets us in or how many flag-draped caskets fly into Dover A.F.B.
But listen, don’t be too discouraged. I’m here to tell you that it won’t go on for too long. Nope, my crystal balls have shown me there’s a definite expiration date stamped on this freak show.
But you don’t want to know about that.