Vote for the same ol’ shtick; Mrs Hillary Clinton.
Whilst once there was a time in which politicians were acceptably immoral and had private agendas for which presidential powers were sought to necessitate; we are now in the perilous epoch of activism and public power.
The sway of the influence no longer is cast by those climbing by ambitious claw and tooth to the top of the perpetual foothills; for the era of personal politics is upon us.
People looking to gain an attribute beyond power are named upon the ballot slot.
Whilst we have Clinton; from the elderly school of dangerous dogs ready to bark and bite a jaw-shaped hole through their enemies in vainglorious effort of keeping the course, we also have Donald Trump – the irrelevant.
Trump has travelled through 7 decades without experiencing negative consequence, living on the accumulations of Trump the Greater and Senior – a Republican and a businessman. The father, one of the potent individual by which the United States came into fruitful fruition, died with an empire ready only to crumble.
From a 7 billion dollar legacy of concrete and formidable zeros, we look into a future of rubble and a single zero.
With Father’s empire to cushion his every failure, Donald has only one successful promotion throughout his life and this is fact that he inherited his name and fortune.
“My name is Donald Trump and I am extremely wealthy” is the successful fact; compounded by his repetition into being something he himself conjured.
And with this being his only success; Donald seeks to push the saturating idea to the hilt; “My name is Donald Trump and I am so extremely wealthy that I became President of the USA”.
A lonely failure, prisoned by his father’s success, the fortune that should have blown doors from hinges before him has constricted him to having one single phrase and one simple point: “My name is Donald Trump and I happen to be wealthy”.
For an individual without the backbone of solid achievement, and with only one thing to say, we now have the ambition that goes beyond seeking power and focuses its aim directly at legacy: Donald Trump wants to be more successful than his incredible father.
Donald wants approval that he has done something without his father, independent from the legacy that shackles him and free from the burden of his own mediocre 70 years.
Upon victory, Donald will seek another – now an international appeal, once more without substance and with the style of an ill-educated celebrity; whereupon he will be met and matched by the world of rabid politicians ferocious in their attacks to gain ground and influence.
A legacy of rubble comes tumbling towards us now, of which Donald Trump will insist on being voted most popular by those who remain.
Clinton is the antithesis of this.
For those denouncing her successes as being a matter of inheritance from her husband’s career, we should remember that she became a Senator and Secretary of State despite her husband writing her off as a figure he sought alternative company from; orally.
Hillary Clinton inherited high intelligence, few sociopathic tendencies and a moral upbringing from her parents.
With so adept a brain and education (in career as well as through a high-standard of schooling) saw her to the role of Senator and White House Secretary of State.
Her femininity, husband’s adultery and the portrayal of her as a frigid career woman caused Hillary to sharpen the teeth and strengthen the grip to hold fast until the ambition was met with completion and another challenge.
Hillary is an old-school politician with the evident will to surpass the standards tossed at her feet by challenges throughout her life; she has made selfish actions and thoughtless mistakes and these in her past are astoundingly rare and accounted for.
Clinton is spectacularly qualified as a politician and leader, whilst that sharpened ruthless edge makes for a President the nation and world is in need of.
And above all; she is a good person. Seeking changes in the world that are essential, though not easy, and changes that are right, though unpopular.
With Hillary Clinton as President of the USA, the world would have a typical leader, more of the same, spouting the day-to-day jargon we’ve come to expect and that many are revolting against.
She would do the job and well.
Donald Trump as President will be the result of a popularity contest with such self-absorbed fear that it shall supersede the point of the entire electoral process; to anoint a leader to do right by the United States of America.
Clinton now portrays what people most want changed: a removal of the jargon, of the old elite, of the dynasty, of the nepotism.
And I expect the removal of this to come profoundly so; following the defeat of Donald Trump in November.
But this depends on the will of the people.
Some vote for Hillary against Trump and vice versa.
Some vote for Hillary because of her policies and the high probability of her proficiency in the role.
Some who vote for Trump are not voting for policies or his qualifications for the role; they are voting for his personality.
And this is weak.
And for a comment on fear; I am afraid that the people of the United States are becoming beyond holding aloft as an example of how to lead the world.
I fear the United States is about to finally disappoint the world beyond reconsideration or forgiveness.
So in aggressive Western response to the economic and expansive rise of China, Brazil, Russia and China, aligned with the decline of the USA and the European Union; I’ll be keeping my chin up and sense of humour alight…I hear Canada’s popular as of late.
Donald. Why are you such a pussy that you only molest women? Molest a 200 pound 27 year old chap like me if want to get some street credibility. Like a real sex offender.
Donald. Have you noticed how all you Trumps look suspiciously Russian?
Why are you communist?
Stop being communist.
Donald. Why do you keep failing? Big failure; huge. Confirmed failure.
Donald. The adoration of 100 million sign-waving, gleefully racist, proudly dense Americans, jiggling their chins in anticipation of your next sassy comment doesn’t amount to your daddy’s love.
I suppose now I’ll need to carry a show-handkerchief and sprout a moustache for folk to tell whether they should respect me or not.
That way I’ll have two things to weep into as I think of the Queen.
I was enjoying a five pound note on Bonfire Night and came away from the experience a Monarchist.
There are only a few years left of the goodest girl, so why not be a Monarchist for the remainder?
If we were to take up republican arms and cast her out onto the Mall, I’d feel wretched.
It seems too easy to picture; the Queen dazed and confused and wondering where to make her way to now she’s without a household to come thither with a blanket and tuck her in…somewhere.
I’d have to relieve her; scoop her up in my messianic middle-class arms and take her home to meet my children. Put her in a shoe box beneath the bed where she’ll eventually die because we miss-fed her dog food.
She may be largely redundant; but it is the strict cohesion of everyone taking this redundancy too seriously that makes her too vital for the nation for us to permit her to pass away.
This being said, I also feel the rise in me of the notion that she has the will for survival as such the daughter-of-mother-nature it becomes macabre.
Butlers, maids and chauffeurs must know they are useful in their current application though also qualify too easily as eventual arrow-fodder and food source. Matter and masses; as it were.
The sensation I’m suffering in two-way tides is that of a masculine/gentleman’s urge to protect the Queen with my English manhood, and to allow her to lead me to my death in use as a barricade and elevenses’.
I’m an individual sort of chap but I’m happy to dive my head into some of that “Dear Leader” complex and feel like I’ve achieved something because I have a Queen.
I’ve got a Queen; what’ve you got?
Pfft. Don’t make me laugh inside (I’d never denote external emotion beyond “ooh what a lovely bouquet of flowers. My house is simply desolate of posies; thank you so awfully much for standing in line today”).
Democracy is for pussies and men who don’t love their grandmother enough.
Let’s talk in terms of granite here.
At war, your senate will discuss which of each of them gains possession of the fallen’s body parts, so as to knaw upon in their final few cannibalistic moments, whilst MY Queen will be standing on the beaches; with crown askew and rabid corgi by her side in delicious anticipation of being used as a by-the-tail-club-to-be-swung, sharpening her own knuckles and daring ISIS to take another step towards her.
I’ve got a Queen.
And I’ll apply her to the affected area liberally.
Why do this? What is she good for, sir?
To become a tad more staunch, perhaps sir?
The Queen makes me stiff, not only in my upper lip, but in every appropriate body part that could do with a wee bit of starching, as well as subjugately flaccid in the single area of pride and shame and irreverence to both penile emotions.
She makes me stiff like a patriot should be; stiff for my country and stiff for my Queen.
Stiffer than a millennial knows how.
The Queen is one of those few things I’ll someday cry about, simply because…she won’t cry in return.
Much like how she wept a sturdy gallon of tears for her retired battleship; she wouldn’t do that for me and I love her for it.
I know that, deep in the belly of Buckingham and Balmoral, she will let loose a lonely droplet for a corgi and she’ll never do that in front of me; and that makes me want to blubber into my stiff moustache.
The Queen is a battleship and I adore her because she sank Nazis and kept us buoyant.
What did your congress do?
Did they gather?
I’ll tell you what the nation’s ‘MRS’ did; she continued as she was bound to.
So quietly dignified that everyone knew about it.
She would wail a piece of aristocratic pottery deep into the noggin of a petulant and “awfully presumptuous” intruder and then proceed to not understand why the nation’s papers are making such a fuss.
Don’t intrude upon my Queen.
And I’ll let her loose on you if you don’t staunch up.
Come be stiff with me.
Oh well chaps. All in good spirits; I’m sure your senate and congress are a charming collection when only one gets to know them.
Here’s a scheme; how about the matinee of Comus at the Globe next Saturday?
You bribe and collect the Senate and Congress to be there for 14:30. They can each have a cushion.
I’ll bring the Queen and her throne; you fucking loser.