Kamala Goes 'Round The Bend - The Last Days Of A Hysterical Woman

There was no sight like it, even in the smarmy mess of American political history. There was Hillary, a woman of pretentious entitlement who assumed that her womanhood would guarantee the Presidency; and Sarah Palin, another woman of incredible presumption who thought that her time had come.  Both women bumbled their way to political asylum because of those wooly notions, never really understanding what hit them, deer in the headlights of political reality. 

Kamala Harris, like Hillary before her, simply cannot believe that the nation could possibly vote for Donald Trump, a dishonorable, despicable man - a fascist, misogynist homophobe at best, and a spawn of the Devil at worst.  Her campaign has been based on that assumption - the election, because of the man, is a foregone conclusion, good vs. evil, a righteous woman vs a moral derelict. 

'How could he?', Kamala wondered. How could a convicted criminal, a hateful caricature of a man, a proven insurrectionist, and a downright fool be neck and neck with her, an anointed, chosen, courageous woman who stands for everything that is right and good. 'What is this country coming to?'

Despite years of scurrilous, unfounded, ad hominem attacks, round after round of lawfare, witch trials, and universal condemnation by the Left, not only is Donald Trump still standing, but he is poised to take the Presidency once again.  

'We must win', says Kamala, worried that Trump if elected would wreak a vengeance never before seen since God's destruction of Sodom and Gomorrah - vengeance upon her, her party, and the claque of vixenish women in Congress who have been relentless in their pursuit of him.  There will be a new Kristallnacht, a violent uprooting of the liberal ghetto, an extermination of a whole race of true believers.  It will be Armageddon. 

 

'I need an escape plan', she thought, and pictured the border with Canada as the one with Mexico - clogged with political refugees from the United States, all desperate for asylum, all fleeing oppression, persecution, and defilement.  Her border, by the way, and even as she panicked, she - a woman without a scintilla of irony in her fleshy body - had to see something of the what-comes-around-goes-around moment in her flight north. 

The Donald was breathing down her neck and she had played every card in her hand - the racist card (deportations, internments, and desperation of the black man the hands of this white supremist), the woman card (Trump, squire of beautiful women and beauty queens is a mental rapist, a hater of the very essence of women), the capitalist card (The Art of the Deal is nothing but a tale of manipulation, coercion, and bullying), and the abortion card (the man is a papist ignoramus who has bought into every Catholic trifle about 'sanctity'). 

He like Andrew Jackson before him, would push all LGBTQ+ people west of the Mississippi into reservations. If elected he will turn America into a Soviet-style gulag complete with Politburo, KGB, and Israeli security forces.

Yet nothing had stuck, and Donald Trump was as near as had ever been to sitting again in the Oval Office because of course, her accusations were nothing but fictitious nonsense. Yes, Trump had every intention of stopping the entitlements to the ghetto, finally interrupting the cycle of dependence on the public trough and lack of personal responsibility, and promoting the new ethos of opportunity where nothing is given but all is possible - the old American ethos responsible for Gates, Jobs, Bezos, and Buffett. 

 

Yes, he admired and desired beautiful women as all men ever have, and prized those with intelligence and allure above all. He hated the idea of what men did with each other in the bedroom, but, a man of Hollywood, he knew that without them, the critical industries of costume design, hair styling, and make up would go begging for talent. 

He valued the inalterable conviction of John Paul II who said abortion for expedient reasons added another layer of inhumanity to this unforgivable sin, and women should think about what they were about to do - not outlaw it, but decommission it as the go-to option. 

He understood enough history to know that bloody Latin American civil wars, the brutality of African dictatorships, the autocratic, punitive regimes of the Soviet Union and Communist China were insurrectionist and destructive, not the Viking-helmeted, war-painted frat boys who stormed the Capitol on January 6th. 

 

'Fascist', Kamala shouted in Pittsburgh. 'Fascist', she howled on the Main Line. 'Fascist', she screeched in Scranton and Lancaster until her voice was hoarse; and yet of course she had no idea of what life under Hitler was like. 

'I was at Auschwitz', said Saul Katz, hearing one of the lady's rants.  He was being herded into the showers when the 4th Infantry brigade stormed the camp, and freed him and his fellows.  Skeletal, naked, hollow-eyed, and tearful, he ran to the gates and for the first time in four years, smiled. 

Hitler, Katz said, was a man of monumental, unparalleled evil - a devil, a demonic, cruel, demon; and his fascist regime, Brown Shirts, storm troopers, panzers, SS, and all the rest had no match for its savagery, barbarity, and inhumanity. 'Donald Trump is no fascist'; and yet the lady insisted and continued with her vaporous, inane remarks, 'the last resort of a fool', as H.L. Mencken once said. 

So the lady, having pulled out every stop on her Wurlitzer, having piped every scurrilous claim and unfounded accusation, having howled like the Mad Woman of Chaillot, was now running on noxious fumes.  'What's a mother to do?', the old advertising line from the Fifties about a harried housewife saved by an Electrolux popped into her head.  'Indeed', she said to herself. 

The time for temperate consideration was long gone.  Kamala had stepped over the line and now was teetering on the edge of panic.  What if she lost, she wondered, a traitor to her cause, to black women, and the nation - and to that man, that piggish, clumsy oaf of a patriarchal boor, that....

Here she stopped herself.  There was still time to get the message out, but her irritated, feverish insides were not capable of rationality, not at this point where the infection of Donald Trump had eaten at her organs for so long; so her only recourse was to give in to her frenzy, and do a last, hysterical St. Vitus' dance, her own, personal orgy of miserable accusations. That was the least she could do. 

'When will it end?', a five-year old was heard saying to her mother on a park bench in Lafayette Square, across from the White House, referring to the endless hawking and screeching of the Vice President. 

'Soon, my love, soon'.