The churro of death! At least I think it’s a churro. Perhaps it’s an elote with spinning metal kernels, like a tunnel boring machine.
Once Trump is dispatched, urchins will breach the yet-to-be-built wall bearing Mexican flags. This might be a case of being too truthful for one’s own good.
Like depicting a mournful pig contemplating mortality at the entrance of your carniceria.
Or portraying sex symbols as eight-nippled dispensers of milk.
Suppose a train left Washington, D.C., bound for Los Angeles. Suppose halfway across the continent the Engineer grew weary of his duties and walked back to the club car for an extended smoke break and a cocktail. Then he stayed for some dinner and chit-chat. Finding the conversation more enlightening than the drudgery behind the locomotive he decides to stick around for awhile. For more smokes. More cocktails and sarcastic banter about the burdens of Engineering.
Obeying Newton’s Laws of motion the train passes through switching yard after switching yard. Seeing no one at the controls, the switchmen pull levers to put the train on tracks of their choosing.
The train keeps rolling through the night. It’s going somewhere, just not to Los Angeles. Not any longer.
Can any one of us say with confidence we know where we are headed? I thought I had a general idea. Events this summer have disabused me. I know only the Engineer no longer wishes to be behind the controls. His seat is vacant. The switchmen are steering us now. They are taking the train where they want it to go.