A Postmortem On Postmortems

Nobody knows anything, and why life is still bigger than politics

Last week, in the dark morning hours after the election, I put out a little postage stamp of a piece — less a column, really, than a cry in the night — while indicating, “I’ll have a longer piece at a later time.”  That piece never came, unless you count this one, and I don’t.  So I guess you could say I lied. Though since we’re in the Glorious New Dawn of Trump 2.0, let’s slip into the spirit of our times by just saying I offered up an “alternative fact” instead.

It wasn’t that I had nothing to say, but was worried that I’d spray it, rather than say it — such was the level of disappointment in and even righteous anger (self-righteous anger?) toward  my countrymen for reelecting the tangelo-flavored hustler whose finishing move in the campaign homestretch was reenacting a blowjob on the stump.  Or maybe he was just doing an Elon impression, since that’s pretty much the position his Pocket-Rocket Man assumes whenever he’s in His Majesty’s court.

See what I mean about the bitterness?  It’s still there — and likely always will be. After my fellow Americans chose a guy whose supporters tried to violently overturn an election that he lost — a slam-dunk disqualifier in any other era besides the one we’re living through — it makes me feel like a not-insignificant crime has been committed against our country. But I wanted to let my resentment recede a bit before I showed my face again in public. If we can laugh about it all now — or at any of it — we might want to get those laughs in during the relatively fallow period between November and Inauguration Day, when Captain Chaos will once again take the wheel, and the laughs will come fewer and further between as we learn how far our normie-democracy hamstrings can be stretched without snapping. (Apologies for the mixed-metaphor stack-up.)