The Rage of a President

Mr. Crusher is intoxicated. He is a world spectacle. All eyes look upon him, all ears listen to his words. The heavens still the rain when he speaks at the inaugural. It seems as if God Himself now defers to the orange menace.

The trouble with blessed intoxication is that it doesn’t last. The mundane reasserts itself. We fall back to earth, and to the requisite of another fix.

The President is addicted to admiration. Mr Crusher accepts no superiors and no equals. He has employees, fans, followers, admirers, protégés, sycophants. He has children and underlings and advisors. Inferior rivals and losers who refuse to submit. He blasts each and every person with the temerity to challenge him. The President needs your admiration. He demands your supplication. Admiration is a drug, and he is an addict, riding the emotional roller coaster of addiction.

It is the morning of the first day on the job, and the President is bored. Why can’t he do something interesting, like address a huge rally of admiring supporters? Why can’t he be looking over an auditorium of upcast devotional eyes, rather than at memoranda and executive orders? The President’s advisors bring him endless documents for his signature. They try to brief him, but the President is bored and vacant. His attention drifts away. He does not feel the warm narcotic glow of admiration upon him. He feels nothing, and, feeling nothing, he wonders, What is the point of being the President?

The intoxicating heights, the dull depths of meaningless drudgery. Shouldn’t the President live in the heights, always in the glorious heights of admiration?

“I’m going to watch TV for a while,” he says.
His advisors plead with him, but the effort is useless. Staff have already learned to hide the remote controller, and the President has already learned to operate the television without it.
Within minutes the news has worked him into a rage. He sees video of his inaugural crowd, juxtaposed against the inaugural crowd of his predecessor. They are pointing out on TV that his crowd is smaller. The President is furious.

The orange menace summons his Press Secretary.
“We are at war,” he says. “Attack the enemy! Attack them and make them pay!”
The Press Secretary is dumbstruck. He stands silent before the spectacle of an enraged President.
“Tell them my crowds were the biggest crowds, the best crowds, the greatest crowds in history!”
“Yes, Sir,” says the Press Secretary, weakly.
“Not like THAT!” says the President. “With STAMINA!”
The Press Secretary goes in search of a useful object. He dives for anger, swims to the floor of his emotional ocean to retrieve the wreckage of half-buried personal rage. There, he finds Dippin Dots. Suddenly the pressure of his blood rises. His heart pounds out an incipient fury. The adrenaline pools within him and he is ready for battle. His archnemesis! Dippin Dots! Not the ice cream of the future!
The diver returns to the surface with his Dippin Dots and a voice of righteous anger—radiant as Isaiah, who spoke unto the Lord, saying HERE I AM. SEND ME!
The President sends his messenger into battle. The Press Secretary obliges, donning his ill-fitting armour. The war begins.

When the rage subsides, the President will feel nothing. He knows only the heights of universal admiration and the depths of reality. The depths of reality do not please him. The depths of reality must be avoided. An alternative reality is required, a reality of forever intoxicating heights. And the orange menace will set them to creating it.

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