It was the best of times, it was the worst of times,
it was the age of wisdom,
it was the age of foolishness,
it was the epoch of belief,
it was the epoch of incredulity,
it was the season of Light,
it was the season of Darkness,
it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair,
we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way— in short, it was hard to believe that both Democratic and Republican Conventions took place in the same country, let alone the same year.
There was a Bully with a cinnamon wig and small hands, with his Queen of fashion and surface, on the throne of Republican Cleveland; there was a Queen of intellect and deep passion, with her King of Saxophones and wonkiness, on the throne of Democratic Philadelphia. In both realms it was clearer than crystal to the elites and commoners alike, that things in general were settled for ever – not.
It was the year of Our Lord two thousand sixteen. Wikileaks was a favored entertainment for the masses then, as now. Cell phones, bearing the laughable appellation “smart,” have taken over Mrs. Southcott’s 6th grade class, leading her to herald a new age when the phones would get together, swallowing up New York and San Francisco in one big gulp. Even the ghost of Ronald Reagan, laid to rest just a few dozen of years, had given up rapping out messages to his party in the Senate Cloakroom, as spirits of felled Republican nominees of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs. The spiritualists, whose livelihood is made endlessly punditizing the rappings, were either confused or elated, depending on the degree to which their mauderings were being conflated with reality by the masses.
Darkness fell upon Republican Cleveland for four long days, while terror Trumped the party and speakers bathed in the unbearable whiteness of fear. Five enormous golden letters towered over the stage, spelling out the name of the event – The Republican Unbelievable Misery Party, or TRUMP. Before the roll call of the damned, a party crasher extraodinaire, bedecked in a blue wig and bearing a curiously stiff weasel named Caligula, made his way past oblivious delegates and staff all the way to the blessed podium, where he graveled in the Hungry for Power Games before somnolent security noticed.
While the Donald dined on email Putinesca, the delegates were fed a steady diet of death, destruction and hate. Crimes imagined but never committed, misogyny and racial animus animated the crowd. Party elders – other than the Phabulous Phatman of New Jersey, who publicly auditioned for Attorney General and proved that his intellect and wit are inversely proportional to the size of his ass – were scarcely present and unusually camera shy. Believing in an America they never knew and no one else would recognize, the assembled courtiers bowed before the cinnamon hair piece and called for death to the Hillary. In the end, it was Three Dog Night cold in that hall and there was no comfort to be had.
Having choked on a serving of email Putinesca themselves, the Democrats threw the party leader – who, gasp, had an opinion about who should be the nominee – under the carriage and trampled her carcass on their way in the door. Democratic Philadelphia felt the Bern, and it was good if just the smallest bit annoying. Even the party crashers were tolerated, especially when they wore a blue wig and were accompanied by a phalanx of cameras, a brigade of onlookers and Caligula. Security, alerted to the hyjinx and hilarity of the blue wigged satirist, gamely endeavored to block access to the stage, but the weasel was too quick for them and landed a palpable victory in their midst. The hand of the Reiner was evident to all paying attention, as the show built to its foregone conclusion.
The diet of the Democratic Delegate could not be more different from that of the Republican Delegate. Love, acceptance, equality, fairness and justice for all were on the menu, fired up with the spice of the Bern. It was about how people help people, not how people hate people; how the Hillary has made helping others her life’s work, while the Donald just helped himself to others’ life work. And even though the road to the convention was hard – but fairly and civilly – fought, the Bern honored the Hillary with a rousing endorsement and call for all to come together in faith and shared purpose. Some who felt the Bern especially keenly had trouble with this. Such is the pain of necessity when picking a single candidate from the field of potentials.
In contrast to their counterparts, Democratic Party elders were very much present and not the least camera shy. The Michelle and the Barack sang to the assembled in their most lyrical voices, reminding everyone that the Democratic Party makes history and always strives, in its awkward and stumbly way, to make the Union more like the perfection we imagine it should be. When the Hillary finally walked on stage to claim the anointed role of Democratic Candidate for President of the United States, the assembled saw that it was good. Those who watched both conventions saw only one person ready to be President, and it’s a woman!
All these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year two thousand and sixteen. Thus environed, while workers labor unheeded, the elites continued to inflict their divine rights upon the land with a high hand and haughty demeanor. But the election was afoot and change was in the air.
Thus year two thousand sixteen directed the electoral combatants toward their destiny, together with myriads of small creatures—the creatures of this chronicle among the rest—along the roads that lay before them. The outcome, my friends, will be fodder for the next chapter in the strange and sometimes inexplicable story of America.
Adapted from A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.
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