From Memewars by Bo Rama Took a final trip to Poppy the other day. He said, “I ran contra dictions.” We chuckled. I told him I’d be seeing Jim. He said to give him his final regards. Silence for traditional introspection. We shared a tender reptilian tear. Something in the way he was looking at me just then seemed sexual, or as if he didn’t want me to forget he could have me in that way. Or for lunch. Literally. The signal was supplanted by an insecure personal projection: It was superior the way 41 waged his wars — in Central and South America and the Middle East and places unknown — compared to how I had merely steered them with technology he’d helmed the development of one way or another for a generation, and even then only by way of the powers bestowed upon me by his seed in 43. But that look disappeared in that reflection and its replacement glimpse let me know that I had served well. Or, at least, the best I could. He gave me parting advice: “If you wanna really relish retirement, never stop playing the game. Sure, let down your hair, but only in putting on airs. Speak as if you’re speaking frankly.” Me, as if giving it an immediate go for his approval, “I can, uh, assure you… let me be clear…” I choked up a little, then I said, “Can we really be friends?” And him, without missing a beat, “Yes, we can.” It doesn’t get any more almost real than that. Now, I don’t actually play chess. Still, pretending to drop kayfabe in feigned ignorance of the kayfabe of the kayfabing opposition is a four-dimensional game at least. I suppose you might think this easy once one’s operating only in raking-it-in mode, reaping the rewards of a post presidency, but I can tell you that in some circles — circles the most ignorant and shallow of my adherents do not travel in, or will ever read about — they marvel at the brilliance of the affected lack of self-awareness of my tongue-in-cheekiness. That’s enough for me. To know that it is the likes of Baker & the Bushes and, by extension, I who belong on the money.
To make sure kids have a chance to go to charter schools, that is. You think that last bit was a tell — like, he only at that moment realised amidst his loving himself so much while basking in the adoration of the likes of those gathered to benefit the creation of a man who was instrumental in making sure Dubya lived the birthright his father forewent on Bubba’s behalf that there might be cameras rolling? Not sure why. His shallow adherents have an excuse at the ready that ranges from “he’s a lesser evil” to “all those things are good”. Since our most steadfast state leads us to jumping out of context to the most convenient conclusions, always pretending we don’t know what’s going on while also pretending we care about where it might lead (because, frankly, where it’s led is the problem dominating the national psyche and what led to it is “complicated” at best/worst). I have a prediction: Hind/Sight 2020! Good luck with the #resistance.