Green Man He Ain’t

Fellow Earthlings. The moment has finally come. We were all afraid something like this would come to pass, but I guess we figured he would have been impeached by now, and someone with brains had stepped in.

Are brains so hard to come by? The thin line of what is morally right or wrong not so thin now. Let’s face it, it never was, after his first week in the office. The Orange Monster arose and hid the Earth inside his hair piece, while elbowing his way to the front row, to assure he was clearly visible in all the pictures.

Let’s just forget about the air we breathe, recycling, riding a bike to work, sitting in the shade for a while, wearing snowshoes, the First Amendment, grammar, or correct spelling, not to mention admitting to a typo. 

His wife was damn right to slap him on his malicious, endlessly fidgety and perversely signaling hand. Locker room talk, my ass.

Who do you think you are?

Is it fun to have your legacy be a destroyed Earth? Take a good long look at the scorched sky. That is what you are doing, Mr. Smith. You think making money trumps all other values in life? Money money money, more money, because you will try and heal the skies with dollar green and watch the tidal wave come from your penthouse window while what you once claimed to be your crew sits inside the craft, planning on how to control the damages, while chewing on nondescript junk from steel cans that kind of tastes like chicken, because chicken tastes, rumor has it, like everything?

But the warming of this globe you so flippantly ignore will catch up with you, too. No matter how much money you once made for the shareholders. That same arrogant flock of illiterate and mad-with-power morons who reside on your very side of the pond will keep plucking the barren earth, pardon my French, but it’s not worms they’ll find, but the remains of a prophecy written in chalk on a notice board outside a Parisian café, and it reads that should that man win election, there will be hell toupee. In the background, Steve Martin will play the lone banjo, wearing his prosthetic nose, crying while he sings about men who took their pathetic grudges out on the planet.

Money and power may buy you a few reluctant grimaces and some pictures with the world’s leaders, religious, political, et cetera. Only you are no leader. Did you see how The Pope glared at you? Along with your dumbass twets I mean tweets, it’s all over the social media.

Earning the rest of the world’s respect would mean one had to, first, show respect to others.

Here’s hoping you won’t choke on the exhaust fumes or let the door hit you on your rear end when you are kicked out from, I don’t know, the House, the country, the planet, for gross neglect, misconduct, selfishness, and plain bad behavior, and being a pompous ass. Being an embarrassment.

You are not The One, kid. Never were. You never made anything great. You are so far past the line, you can’t even see the line; the line is a dot to you. Angry men make for poor deodorant salesmen.

Less tanning lotion, more trips to the barber’s, is what I always say.

This piece contains elements from Friends (s.4 ep. 7), Hannah and her Sisters (1986), Matrix (1999), Roxanne (1987), The Witches of Eastwick (1987), and Kim Warp’s and Tom Toro’s cartoons in The New Yorker, from May 15^th 2017, and November 26^th 2012, respectively.