We have so many to choose from! Fact checkers
have compiled a list of some 20,000 lies and inaccuracies since Trump assumed office. Here's one of my favorites among the most recent: When asked
why he has been downplaying the virus that has caused so much devastation, he
replied that he actually had been 'upplaying' the virus!
This might take some explanation--which I will
provide--but the lying Maha-Belly reminds me of the truthful Mahabali, the
mythological king of ancient Kerala, located in South India.
Mahabali was a very good king indeed. He presided over
what could be called the Golden Age of the Kingdom of Kerala; there were no thieves, no
strife, no problems of inequality, much like the Golden Age of Greek lore.
In Indian mythology, when a mortal becomes so good that he impinges on the
divine, the gods get jealous. Thus, to test the king, Lord Vishnu assumed his fifth incarnation
among ten, that of the Brahmin dwarf, Vamana.
Vamana approached and
asked Mahabali for some land. The King, good man that he was, agreed to give him as
much land as he wanted. Vamana requested that he be permitted to measure out the boon by
taking three steps. How far can a dwarf get with three steps, the King said to himself, and
agreed.
The dwarf, being an avatar of Lord Vishnu Himself, thereupon
assumed cosmic proportions. With the first step, Vishnu spans the Heavens; with
the second, he spans the entire Earth. With nowhere else to go, Vishnu
places his foot upon the head of Mahabali, atthe king's request, and pushes him down to the
netherworld. Like Persepone, Mahabali returns to Kerala once a year,
symbolizing, perhaps, that traces of the Golden Age, though exceedingly rare in
the current Age of Lead, still flash up occasionally and fan 'fresh our wits
with wonder.' His annual return is commemorated by the South Indian holiday of
Onam.
Now let’s update the tale for the current Age of Lead. I call
it Onam in New York. In this tale the characters are reversed: Vamana, the dwarf, becomes Mega-Belly, President Trump; King Mahabali becomes Truth Itself, the eleventh avatar of Vishnu.
The scene is in front of Trump Towers in New York. Maha-Belly, more old and feeble than he is now, is at the
point of death. He approaches Truth for a final reckoning.
Maha-Belly: I had a nightmare last night that I am
doomed for a terrible rebirth.
Truth: You opposed me your entire life. Your karma is as negative as it
gets. Greed demands that you be reborn in hell as a Hungry Ghost, that is, a
beast the size of an elephant with a pin-sized head. A huge body combined with
the ability to eat of an ant guarantees that you’ll suffer the torments of a hunger which is never satisfied. Your
mendacity, however, demands that you be reborn as a dung beetle. Your choice.
Mega-Belly: No hope? I was, however, a malignant
narcissist; can’t I claim the innocence of the piri-loose, the baityam, the mad?
Truth: No. Yes, you were nuts enough to make a
squirrel salivate, but sane enough to know right from wrong. I will, however,
give you a chance to do better. You’re such a mess that I can’t promise much.
Perhaps instead of a hungry ghost you will be reborn as a semi-satisfied
spectral moron; perhaps instead of a dung beetle you’ll be reborn as—well, I
can’t do much about that, but I can try. Tell me three truths and I might be
able to have you reborn as a bluebottle, aka a blow fly, aka. as a carrion fly. At
least you’d be able to spread your wings and fly—albeit from carrion to carrion.
Meg-Belly: I have done more for Blacks with the
possible exception of Abraham Lincoln.
Trump’s Pinocchio nose thereupon assumed cosmic
proportions.
Mega-Belly: Climate change is a hoax.
Trump’s Pinocchio nose thereupon encircled the earth.
Truth: You now have nowhere to go. Can’t you tell the
truth even once? This is your last chance.
Mega-Belly: I have done a fantastic job with the epidemic.
I could not have done better. Besides, a vaccine is coming which will heal the
public by providing Herd Mentality.
He babbles on and on and drives Truth into the ground.
Soon Truth’s chthonic voice is heard from the depths: Oy, Oy, Oy!
At least this is certain: dung beetles will survive the
ravages of climate change.
2.
The future hungry ghost, the future dung beetle once
infamously claimed that he is “a very stable genius.” I wonder if he knows he’s lying and ignorant,
or whether he’s doing his best to cover it up. Recent revelations in Bob
Woodward’s book, Rage, lead me to believe that he knows more than he pretends to. This makes matters worse, since
his cover-up regarding the handling of the Covid epidemic indicates deliberate failures to protect the American people. Even before his disastrous
rebirth, he possesses the empathy of a dung beetle.
One of the most egregious examples of his idiocy is
when he asked Dr. Birx, the national Coronavirus Task Force Coordinator, a renowned
scientist, whether injecting bleach into humans would be an effective means to
combat the epidemic. This evinces the knowledge of virology of a picturebookish
toddler. Any sane person would have run this quack idea before an expert (or
even a picturebookish toddler) before blurting out this humiliating theory in
a national press conference. One can conclude that this semiliterate moron really
believes that he is a genius, and his bleach theory would finally bring the
fame his neediness so craves.
After the notorious press conference, I wrote the
following poem, entitled, “Bleach or Water”—
Neighbors, do not get uptighter,
Trump just wants to make us whiter—
Let’s blanch our inner Mexican
Back into John Wayne again: drink bleach!
Fallen from their privileged nests
Into multi-colored mud, souls
Flap about in muck like crows;
Burn them into turtledoves. Drink bleach!
Though you might turn Kelly green
Let your insides churn pristine,
For white is pure. So, do not go chiaroscuro;
This is not the Renaissance. Drink bleach!
Yet, despite President Narcissus,
America still has a choice: Science or Trump;
Whatever the Mad Hatter says,
Let us do the opposite! Drink water.
3.
Vote.
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