A Mad, Mad Morning for the Donald...

As if the situation with the OPIATE Epidemic wasn't bad enough...

As I watched the latest episode of Bill Maher's REALTIME on today's bright Saturday morning on the other side of the planet, on a freezing, blustery North Atlantic coastline Donald Trump was just beginning to stumble down a mirrored passageway, on heavy lidded eyes filled with the webbed feet of crows that tracked across his itching naked eyeballs all the way to the Bathroom, and all the while being looked down upon pompously by framed shots of himself culled from various magazine covers that decorated both sides of the hallway.

Stumbling along the blinking, winking passageway, it's trail marked by a string of New-Age pastel Neons which hadn't quite worked out, Donald indulged himself in one of his favorite pastimes by admiring the many varied silhouettes and profiles of himself that so beautifully decorated and 'Yes, Dammit', had 'enhanced the ambiance of the space' in reflected glory.

Finally entering his confused and confusing, overly elaborate lounge-room with it's usual routine of mid-morning Sun, streams of light in great golden chunks which poured through enormous gaps in the giant bamboo curtains haphazardly thrown up in a final mad scramble, to cover the embarrassing nakedness of the impressively opulent bay-view windows.

Donald stood there mutely looking numb and as if suddenly incapacitated by a familiar sense of the unknown...

Like a vast lake of Dark Matter, a rancid swamp of not knowing, of the Unknown and unknowable, which for Donald had manifested itself in a powerful, seeping pall of dread...

He was gripped by a familiar Fear that there was something absolutely Vital he was missing...something which he was not ever supposed to Forget!

A fear that now slid agonizingly into his chest and towards his throat, as he went slowly but surely Mad as a Hatter...exactly as King Lear had done, overwhelmed and drowned in the psychic juices of his own paranoia.

Intricate abstract patterns crept in shadows along the walls and ceiling like heiroglyphics, spelling out Donald's fate, his apparent descent into madness in appropriately bizarre, elongated shadow shapes that cut surgically through gaps in the ancient bamboo curtain, and he just stood there looking quizzically down at his personally embroidered family crest...

Donald stooped over sheepishly in an embroidered dressing gown with golden tassels, forlornly scratching away at a troublesome hedgerow of freshly transplanted hair.


At last feeling fully satiated in waves of relief, he resumed kicking at the usual suspects which obediently crashed into each other as they rolled about on the sumptuously carpeted floor i.e at the usual customary cluster of ‘Empties’ ...

Otherwise known as Big-Pharma Red Rock Candies...or Pharmaceuticals.

In the background can be heard the refrain; “When ONLY the Best Will Do!!!” and
“For that truly severe, nagging Pain”

This was all sung cheerily and remarkably sincerely, and said with a straight face that would make an Egyptian God weep, by a marble and gold “Idiot Box” in a voice which just went on and on in dripping, obsequious harmonies as the empty bottles of Fentanyl and Prozac gathered in non-descript clusters in corners of the room.

Donald watched on like ‘Akhenaten’, glassy-eyed in vacant, zombified amusement as the empty bottles danced and rolled about across the Trump name which was all in gold, and smeared, almost drunkenly across the otherwise bland carpeted floor.