Kamala, The Duke, And The Preposterousness Of A Harris Presidency

Kamala Harris, Democratic candidate for President of the United States has made it a point to avoid interviews, press conferences, and even quips and asides with the press.  She has been convinced that success is certain - most voters feel that it is time for a woman President and a black one at that - a historical two-fer that will not be denied. Since her supporters have no interest in her policies or programs, her opponents can whinge, demand, and carp till the cows come home.

 

'We're almost there', her campaign director informed her after reading the latest polls.  Neck and neck with Trump in key swing states, a toss-up nationwide.  When voters finally enter the polling booth, their moral compasses set to the North Star, their prayers said, and every ounce of good faith sent Kamala's way, they will without hesitation, pull the lady's lever and send her to her appointed place in history. 

Harris-Walz lawn signs are everywhere, the campaign director announced, a virtual Spring garden of good will, good intentions, and an inspirational hope for all Americans. 

'I am proud to be running for President of the United States', Harris read from her prepared script at a campaign stop in Scranton, Pennsylvania, a must-win state for her and her Democratic down-ticket candidates.  'I...am...a...woman', she shouted in measured cadence. 'A proud black woman.  I am Rosa Parks! But unlike her I will drive the bus'.  

 

Hoots and hollers, hats thrown in the air, kazoos and didgeridoos honking and blaring, the crowd went wild.  Black women wept, white women throttled their way to the stage to get a closer look at the woman who would transform them and the country. 

Thrilled at the welcome, Kamala was unstoppable. A great solar wind had filled her sails, and she felt as resplendent and powerful as an Egyptian queen.  She caught a glimpse of herself on the monitor and marveled at her high-toned copper complexion, her full lips, and the classic symmetry of her face.  She embodied the essence of the female from Nefertiti to Cleopatra and was as endowed as those women with intelligence, insight, and vision. 

 

She gave a toss of her hair and a wide smile, gestured to the crowd for quiet, holding out her arms in a generous embrace. 'I am yours forever', she said and meant it.  This was only the first step to greatness.  As she looked out over the crowd, she saw only stars and streamers, festoons, balloons, and banners, crosses and altars, and smelled the incense of high mass.  Hers would be an inauguration of beauty and pomp without precedent. 

Of course anyone who had not been converted and had not felt the epiphanic joy of imagining Kamala in the White House, or had not jumped for joy thinking of her sitting in the Jefferson chair at the Lincoln desk, looking out over the Rose Garden and the South Lawn, knew that this cackling harpy was going nowhere. An empty suit, an airy fluff with a trailing scent of cheap perfume, a poseur, a windy cipher, a flopping, pumped up, St. Vitus' dance wild plastic come-on for used cars. 

'Good God', said Sir Randolph Pritchett, Ninth Duke of Northumberland, peer of the realm, knighted by Elizabeth, Churchillian scholar and Tory eminence, longtime cultural critic of the United States when the saw this display.  He had long ago thought that the United States had lost its way to the bottom of the barrel, the once proud republic of Jefferson, Hamilton, and Adams, now awash in the swill of this woman, an oddity let out for some fresh air, howling like a baited bear, clambering for God knows what since the bald-faced emptiness of the woman was beyond belief. 

 

'It cannot possibly happen', growled the Duke, appalled at the thought of that woman in the White House, appalled even more at the deformed electoral system that could even consider the candidacy of such a queer dilettante. 

'I thought we had settled all that African diaspora thing a century ago', he said, 'what with Empire, regency, and colonial rule'.  Slavery he admitted was not the right thing to do, but to lionize the black man, raise him to the pinnacle of society, limn his praises like that woman does...

Here he sputtered and fumed as each image of the street insurrections of the ghetto came to mind, the craven, capitulating, 'inclusive' fol-de-rol of America's liberals; but here was that woman again banging on about being a black woman, for God's sake, when America needed a Margaret Thatcher, a man in woman's clothing, a mensch and a hero. 

 

America had fallen apart, of that he was certain.  The days of the Founding Fathers inspired by the Enlightenment, encouraged by Locke and Rousseau, and visionary thanks to homage to England and a longstanding emulation of British culture, were no longer.  The country in the hands of the likes of Kamala Harris, preposterous arriviste, deserved its fate.  God bless England. 

Why bother with an antiquated, supernumerary peer of the realm?  What did anyone in England even know about the vital dynamics of American exceptionalism? Or anywhere in the world for that matter. 'We are a republic unto ourselves', said Kamala when the Duke's corrosive, damning op-ed appeared in the New York Times, its unwilling editors bought off with Rupert Murdoch 'incentives'.  

Yet the readers of the Times, surprised at such an editorial appearing in what they had thought was a solidly liberal paper, and shocked at the unbridled offensiveness of the tone and content, paid attention, for it was one of the first times that their candidate, the saintly and recondite Kamala, had been so vilified and taken apart piece by piece until the remnants were not worth a spit in the ocean.

The Duke was called out for rancid misogyny and a woman-hatred far more vile and demeaning than the crudest locker room jokes. He dismantled all her sexual presumptions - the woman thang he wrote, a convenient cover for a harpy with political ambition and nothing else - and let her racial suppositions have it.  

'Get yo' white ass up outta here', he quoted a woman from Washington DC's vilest slum where candidate Kamala had gone for black solidarity.  Racist! shouted progressives, but the sham had been exposed for what it was - shameless pandering. 

Once the door had been opened and 'anything goes' became the meme of the newsroom, the absurd candidacy of this female caricature was a relentless turkey shoot. Her Republican opposition had to say nothing, for the Emperor's new clothes had been outed for what they were.  That woman was nothing but a lot of flubber, sags and crows' feet gussied up to look presentable. 

'God help us', said the Duke at the word 'poised', suggesting near victory; but then again the Americans had made their beds and would now have to lie in them.  'A gross, disgusting thought', said the Duke and turned out the lights.