Who fired The Donald? Whoever it was that pulled the figurative trigger on The Donald, they certainly triggered a revival of conspiracy theorizing on a grand scale. Forget the Birthers…all the speculative excitement is now with the Deathers.
Reports are that Oliver Stone and Aaron Sorkin are in a race to finish whodunit screenplays, and both are getting calls daily from Kevin Costner to reincarnate him in the role of the obsessed prosecutor, Jim Garrison. Even Barbara Garson’s wonderful play of yore, MacBird (which cast Lyndon Johnson in the MacBeth role in the JFK assassination) will reopen in The Donald’s hometown for a run that could last as long as The Donald mystery itself (that is, forever!). And, first-out-of-the-gate conspiracy theorists around the world are combing the back files of neocon-tracker Robert Parry’s Consortiumnews.com blog, wherein reside the bloody trails of more than a few suspects.
As The Donald might have said himself, nothing shows the true greatness of a nation like an active culture of regicide…even pre-regicide. In this respect, The Donald has kept his campaign promise to make America great again.
As an imaginative writer and political junkie, I have often daydreamed about what the first few days must be like for a wet-behind-the-ears new occupant of the White House. As with everything in politics and business, the action doesn’t really get any more dignified the higher the elevation…alas we are a venal species and the requisite sociopathy that accompanies or drives ascendance in all of our various systems of power (let’s not leave out the church) insures that the tricks are no less dirty at the top than they are in the gutter, albeit the sanitizing tends to be less transparent at the top. Which of course is the essential fog for conspiracy theorizing.
Sadly, The Donald probably never got the facts of life talk that most certainly would have accompanied his initial sleep-over in that big white house. Possibly it might have saved his life, though probably not.
Just what are those facts of life? I suppose, metaphorically speaking, it is the who’s-your-daddy chat that a new president must endure and heed as he is introduced to the embedded nests of power that really run the country…the so-called shadow government of the Deep State. In part this scenario must be a bit like the come-down conversation an actor, thoroughly immersed in his role, has with his shrink after a successful theatre run. “No Charlton, you aren’t Moses…that was all just playacting.” (OK, sometimes one needs a better shrink)
Most of us progressives have finally figured out what Ralph Nader has been telling us for years…that elections, especially presidential campaigns, are just theatre. But even the most jaded veteran politician is likely to begin believing the empowering lines fed to him after a couple years on the presidential campaign stump. Still, one has to doubt that there was ever a shrink so crazy, himself, to suppose that he could realign The Donald with the realities of power. After all, The Donald was a maker of “reality” and wrote/spewed his own empowering lines; here was a man who truly believed in his own invention of omnipotence and immortality.
“Who’s your daddy, Donald"?
“Me…I’m my own daddy…that’s one up on Jesus for Immaculate Conception! God read my book and we did a deal.”
I happened to be among a small group present to hear Senator Eugene McCarthy first announce his decision to take on the reigning president of his own party back in November 1967. At that point, of course, even the most idealistic among us knew that this wasn’t a bid for real power, as distinct from getting behind a man with huge integrity positioning himself for political martyrdom for no better reason than he wanted “his” president to stop bombing the innocent folks of Southeast Asia. As with all of us who had worked four years earlier to bar an Air Force General (reserve) from playing god from twenty thousand feet, the fact that “our” president wasn’t listening to our moral voice was particularly galling. Gene, as the buttons later announced, was clean…no man so intelligent was ever so gosh darn holy clean. Not the least pious…just gosh darn clean! And, for some of us young political “realists” that fact was suddenly a concern. Even hypothetically, how would Clean Gene handle the who’s-your-daddy chat? One of us put the question to him that afternoon of his coming out.
“What will you do when the powers that be call from the Pentagon?” We didn’t know much about all the other real seats of power in those days.
“I won’t answer the phone,” replied our poet holy-man.
“Follow up question, sir…what will you do if they come over to the White House to bang on the Oval Office door.”
“I will have my secretary tell them that I am engaged in a particularly difficult problem of pentameter and can’t receive them until I have solved the rhyme.” Clean Gene paused and quietly added that, “sometimes it takes four years to make a verse work just right.” I think most of us knew then that the rhyme he had in mind had more to do with humanity than poetry.
Of course we will never know how Clean Gene would have handled the who’s-your-daddy reality power check. But, the last seven years have given us a pretty clear picture of how Barack Obama handled it, and I expect in the previous regime Uncle Dick had the talk with Little Georgie about the same time he appointed himself Vice President; that is, long before Junior’s residency in the White House came to be. And, because of his earlier role in the CIA, Little Georgie’s father probably didn’t have to endure the who’s-your-daddy briefing. Indeed, quite possibly he was the messenger daddy who explained it all to his presidential predecessor. But then Ronnie Popular was an accomplished role player, specializing in second fiddles. Even when positioned as lead mule in the borax train of state, Ronnie was ever so responsive to gentle pulls on the reins.
Exactly where and when the conspiracy to terminate The Donald’s quest for immortality congealed is hard to say. Serious conspiracy theorists are rushing out to purchase Mike Lofgren’s richly informative book, The Deep State: the Fall of the Constitution and Rise of Shadow Government, for a complete catalogue of likely suspects…that being the throng of real power brokers with real concern about matters of maintaining control in a future TrumpRealityWorld.
One thing is for sure; this hit was destined to share something with the most acclaimed assassination of all time…the offing of Julius Caesar (The Donald would say no less, himself, if he could joyously be leading the pack of Deathers). In both cases, the target had inspired both fear and enmity among a multitude of powerful and deadly enemies. No lone shooter scenario possible here; no sour-grapes thespian out for the drama of one last hit performance. This was ordained to be an offing of many knives. However, that still begs the question that thrills all conspiracy theorists. Which knives?
I can’t help imaging it in the model of the famous Mafia Apalachin Meeting in upstate NY back in ‘57. There they were, the heads of all the crime (read: corporate) cartels: the Banksters and the Drugsters, the Oilers and the Insurers; and, of course, the most powerful mob of all…the MICs (no, not Scorsese’s Irish thugs or the IRA); I mean the ribbon-chested and pinstriped boys from the military industrial complex.
In my fantasy they were assembled to assess the risks of having that who’s-your-daddy conversation with The Donald in the increasingly likely circumstances of his moving into the big white house.
Big Daddy Diamond from the Banksters, came right to the point. “He’s a rogue gorilla…his fingers may be the size of cocktail wieners, but the bastard’s got an ego as tall as Trump Tower. What if the little prick tells us to piss-off.”
“No problem,” came a minor chorus of over-confident corporate Mafioso, “we knock ‘em off!”
That flushed out a nervous round of second thoughts from the Banksters. “It’ll hurt the markets…you can’t knock off a POTUS without hurt’in the markets.”
“Bumping off a POTUS could undermine our expansion operations in Eurasia,” cried the MICs…”The Vlad will be laughing all the way to Berlin!”
And so the debate burgeoned and wore on. Possibly it was the sage voice of the capo dei capi-emeritus, old Hank-the-Kisser, which brought the matter back to the all-important calculus of risk and timing in the murder biz. “He has to go before the Convention…we can’t risk waiting any longer. Now let’s talk about the hard part.” He meant the cover-up, which was certainly old Hank-the-Kisser’s forte.
And so, let the conspiracy theories flourish. Had he lived, The Donald would have been right in there with his own Deather theory. No doubt, it would have been the greatest of all…and the loudest…and, lest we forget, quite possibly the most popular!