A reflection by Adam Schiff
“I’m not one to schiff-t the blame.” – Adam Schiff, Anecdotes and Polyglots
MSNBC: “…a glorious historic speech by one of this nation’s finest examples of statesmanship….”
TIME WAS when a democrat could openly espouse his/her/its commitment to authoritarian ideals.
One could be proud to say that one had no qualms about a country of sheep ruled by a cadre of elites who knew best how and when and why and how long the sheep should live.
But that time has passed; we must now hide in the shadows of the Washington Monument or a dumpster behind the White House, must slink around in darkness, soft-pedaling our true intentions—all thanks to the burgeoning and encroaching shadow cast by Donald J. Trump of Orange.
His flagrant and prohibitive usage and abusage of presidential powers makes me sick. And lately I’ve been wondering just why that is.
What is it that so curls my testicles at the sight and mention and thought of Trump?
To this end, and siphoning this spirit, last week I did something that, quite honestly, I haven’t done all my life.
I was in strange waters, to say the least.
I did something that no politician, however pious and righteous, should ever do—something that no wise politician has ever done or perhaps will ever do.
What I did—and I’m nearly ashamed to admit it—I was, if I may say so with a straight face, honest with myself.
Before you censure me again, let me say a word or two on this topic.
This honesty came at a great personal price to me. I writhed with pain. I felt that my soul was being sucked out of my body. I really thought my colon was shriveling. I thought I was going to die.
The conclusion I reached was this: President Trump’s usage and abusage of presidential powers makes me sick because his display of presidential powers has made me sick with jealousy.
Yes, I have been jealous. Jealous enough to die.
Why Isn’t That Me, Adam Schiff?
When I see Donald J. Trump raising his fist of power, I ask, Why isn’t that me?
When I see him make his pronouncements, to shape and mold the nation as he would, I ask, Why isn’t that me?
When he enters and emerges the presidential transport pods—the limousine, the helicopter, Air Force One, and all the other contrivances by which this nation allows this man to be ferried around on the taxpayer’s dime—I ask, Why isn’t that me?
When his press secretary hammer-whips the opposition; calls journalists on the proverbial carpet; lobs bric-a-brac insults near and far; I ask, Why isn’t that me?
With every stroke of the pen, heralding and ushering in a new executive order, I ask, Why isn’t that me?
I could go on, but I digress.
I am sick with jealousy, sick enough to die.
When I see Trump’s exercises of power—and god knows how this heart wants to vomit seeing it—it reminds me that I do not have this power, much as I want to have it.
I must content myself with withering away in the Senate chamber, pulling such ruses as, “The gentleman is not recognized,” when my enemies try to speak; and lobbing or otherwise firing salvos of slander and misdirection in every direction to thwart my enemies.
And why do I do it? Why even bother with this crap?
Because when late at night I’m at home and my pants are down and I’ve taken off the Spanx and I’m there in front of my full length body mirror standing on the cold marble floor that I loathe but that my wife, damn that bitch—she wanted it, so what was I going to do, say no?
The only thing I can do, it’s all I can do.
I have few real powers, little recourse in Donald J. Trump’s sick maniacal world. And it makes me sick with the fever of jealousy.
Adam Schiff is Sick With the Fever of Jealousy
One thing about this fever of jealousy is that it has a lot of side effects.
One of the most insidious is that it causes anger. And that anger soon becomes rage.
I know I’m starting to feel this anger because I get gas. And when I get gassy I excuse myself and go away to be alone with myself then let out explosive farts, really big booming ones that tear out of my asshole and sometimes if my anus is wet they feel like they are ripping my ass hole in half….
Once the farts begin to fly, it’s a rage I feel in my bones. My soul heaves under its weight. I am infused with this awful churning and broiling desire to exercise my revenge against this fool, to cast him down, to stick it in his face—because it is him, and not me, and it should have been me, and it wasn’t, so he’s gotta pay.
This must give me pause. It does. I know that the time is short. That the possibilities of prosecuting Trump are few and far between. Yeah, yeah, try to impeach, okay, it isn’t tie for that, maybe never will be.
That it is far more likely—and here is another moment of honesty that curls my toenails—I know it’s far more likely that I myself will soon be prosecuted by Trump et al. owing to their desire to indulge their lust for revenge than it will ever be the case that I will prosecute him, or even see him prosecuted.
A vociferous nature. Replete with vociferousness.
Adam Schiff Digresses
I digress onto a byway that arises as part and parcel of this discussion.
It is the concept of authoritarian democracy. You see, friends, I would—were I infused with the great authoritarian power of Donald J. Trump—and I have thought about this, dwelled upon it, meditated deeply within it, turned it over and inside out endlessly—I would serve as the prime example, the apotheosis, of the benevolent authoritarian. I can handle the pressure of power. I wouldn’t break and crack, like so many, under the weight of unlimited authority.
It is not true that absolute power corrupts absolutely.
Rather, it is that the yearning to exercise absolute power—that is, the yearning spurned—that causes the corruption.
But when once absolute power is bestowed upon the willing, eager, and worthy—such as myself—then and only then will it be exercised aright. Then and only then will the antipodes of oppression be realized.
Then and only then, at the hands of one who knows what is best and has the Will to do it, only at that coronation will authoritarian democracy in America bloom and flourish under an endless sun that delights to straighten the crooked paths, to fill every valley, to lower every mountain, and usher this nation as sheep into the promised land, a land flowing with well-regulated and sustainable and fairly and evenly re-distributed milk and honey.