Vice Precedents

The last US president to hold office (the verb serve seems hardly apt in the present context) for two non-consecutive terms was Grover Cleveland in the late nineteenth century. A biographer said that Cleveland "had no endowments that thousands of men do not have. He possessed honesty, courage, firmness, independence, and common sense. But he possessed them to a degree other men do not." It is fitting that the first president to duplicate Cleveland's electoral achievement should not only possess none of those qualities, but should lack them to a degree other men do not. Cleveland's personal reputation remained high despite an unsuccessful second term; the Trumpster has gained a second term with a personal reputation that is high in a more fly-blown and olfactory fashion. Cleveland was a conservative in the antiquated sense of one who aspires to conserve; the Trumpster is a conservative in the modern sense of one who aspires to fascism. After his second presidency, Cleveland joined a law firm; after the Trumpster's second presidency, the law is likely to be more infirm than for quite some time.

The last US president to be black turned out to be a bland technocrat whose tenure precipitated a Trumpster term of office. The last US vice-president to be black has contrived to duplicate that achievement.

Unworthy Foes

One of the major difficulties with being the master race, especially when uttering oracular threats to stir up a bit of rah-rah for World War III, is that official enemies are necessarily contradictory. They are existential threats, like the Palestinian civilians confronting the Middle East's sole nuclear power; but they are also bungling clowns, like the mad mullahs whose measured and proportionate responses to the Netanyahoo's efforts at starting a regional conflagration have recently made Iran such an international laughing-stock. Similarly, the deployment of North Korean troops in the Ukraine war has been characterised as both a sign of desperate weakness and a grave escalation; the latter primarily because the World Cop reserves the right to inflict apocalyptic punishment upon the Heathen Chinee should their ally misbehave unduly. Mere days later, Britain's leading liberal newspaper has felt obliged to balance out the stern pronouncements of the Secretary of State by rounding up a defector or two and producing an analysis which proclaims the North Korean contingent to be inexperienced, parasite-ridden, trained for the wrong terrain, farcically killable and, in stark contrast to the average NATO squaddie, quite possibly somewhat deceived as to the nature of the cause for which they fight. Clearly, a master race that feels threatened by so pitiful a rabble must be very masterful indeed.

Yet More Conspirators Unmasked

Not even the most raunchily radioactive head-tribble can hope to control every movement of its minions every moment of the day, and it appears that the board of directors at Trumpster Media has committed a slight indiscretion. The company, which owns the amusingly double-misnomered Truth Social globberware platform, has provoked squeals of rage from its more patriotic staff by outsourcing jobs to the drug-dealing, cheerleader-ravishing Latino Untermenschen. Given the Trumpster's famously rigid consistency in principle, word and action, this can only mean that the saviour of the nation and protector of womenfolk whether they like it or not may soon be forced into slapping punitive tariffs on his own produce. Were it not for the Trumpsterite base voter's virtuous aversion to hormonal re-orientation in the face of mere reality, there might even be reason to anticipate the exquisitely poetic outcome of an election loss through insufficient racism.

Love is Blind

In the eternal hierarchy of ways in which people make fools of themselves, the position of sex is at least as illustrious as those of religion and politics, and therefore no rational intelligence would be surprised that sex is at least as amenable as the others to entrepreneurial exploitation. Hence Britain's leading liberal newspaper, which holds the powerful to account while owing its existence to their advertising, is amazed, aghast and shocked to discover that the capitalist affair of online dating is geared primarily to profit. Procuring via mobile phone has ceased to be the innocent, romantic business of days past and has become a mere means of extracting revenue, for all the world as if making money rather than churning out happy couples were the whole point of the enterprise. Indeed, given that all three elements in the trinity of human idiocy are transcendently enshrined in family values, the fact that the proper functioning of the enterprise results in fewer and not more happy couples may well come as the greatest shock of all.

Season's Brexit Blessings

Midway between All Hallows' Eve and the rah-rah over the torture and execution of a failed parliamentary reformer means, of course, that the corporate calendar is at least half-way through the annual Christmas season. Like many other aspects of British life, the Saccharine Solstice has been affected by independence from the beastly Euro-scrooges. Owing to the Strasbrussels dictatorship's refusal to treat the UK as a member of the club just because the UK happens to have flounced out of the club, the great British Christmas tree is now subject to expensive border checks whenever it is sufficiently British to be imported. Although shortages are unlikely this year, price rises may drive many to accept artificial substitutes and deprive themselves of the innocent seasonal pleasure of picking pine needles out of the carpet until midway through the chocolate egg sales. A few entrepreneurs on the mainland have started growing their own trees, which may spruce up the market should enough of them survive the floods, droughts, invasive species and moral panics which will inevitably enliven future festivities. Given that the tradition of exterminating trees for Christmas was introduced to the master race by the Euro-wog royal house of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha, patriots will no doubt rejoice at this latest poetic victory.

Pop Queens

Art thieves, loosely speaking, have blasted their way into a Dutch gallery and stolen some Andy Warhol manufactures. The pieces belong to a series of garishly retouched official photographs of female monarchs who were on the throne at the time of production, imaginatively titled Reigning Queens. Two items were damaged and left behind as the miscreants made their getaway, having apparently found themselves unable to fit the booty into their vehicle. The damage might be a more serious matter were it not for the fact that the pieces had already been signed and numbered by the artist, loosely speaking, thereby rendering them already less mass-produced and more individual.