Should I rise from my bed or should I remain in my bed? This is the first question I face, each and every day. Yes, each and every day I must decide, before all else, whether to get out of my bed or whether to not get out of my bed. This is how I go about it.
The evening of the party is like every other evening. They sit around the numberless tables in a vast well-lit space. It is a sea of humanity shrinking into the horizon. Ten are seated at each table. There is no theme to the evening, no thread that ties them. Some are dressed as for a formal occasion, but most are not. Each table is draped in white linen.
My name is Kalashnikov, it is true. The details of my history are of no consequence. They matter not, I will not dwell on them, it is best for the both of us. Whether I live or die, I no longer care. There was a time I cared, long ago, but let us pass over this. Soon I will be in the ground, or I will be dust on the air, I don’t care which. Whatever it is, I expect it will be final. Yes, I will be dead and gone and there will be no one to speak of it and nothing to say. A void and a nothing—not even an emptiness, in which a nothing. A not nothing not empty nothingness. Who can say for certain? To speak of it is to not speak of it, it is beyond speaking. So I will not speak of it.
He steps into the damp November air and descends to the tarmac of Ben-Gurion Airport. The Tel Aviv rainy season has begun. God has sketched a featureless sky of phosphorescent pencil. The earth receives its languid tears. But Charles-Edward Crusher, son of the President-elect, has arrived. The sun will soon emerge in Israel.
The Presidential Apprentice “You’re hired!” s01e03 11/22/2016
NEW YORK MONTAGE
ORANGE MENACE (V.O.)
New York is a tough place, and that’s why I love it. I also love a good show. In this town everything is show business. You want to make it big? Then learn how to put on a show. I’m talking real drama. I know show business, and look where I am today. The White House!
The monstrous sun rises over the tableau, another da capo round of the daily quotidian’s diurnal recurrence. Hilari pauses her work of harvesting to savour a morsel of the dawn. Amor fati, she grumbles, of the eternal recurrence. She returns to the harvest.
It was a huge number of years ago. I mean, I don’t know, like a hundred years. A hundred? Yeah, say about a hundred. It doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. A tremendous number of years and our fathers, folks they were the best fathers, and they brought forth a new nation on this land, a free nation. Tremendous freedom. Freedom like you have never seen, believe me. And they said, listen, all men are created equal. So true. They said men but, you know, they said we’re equal.
The bar in this small central Pennsylvania town is like many others. A few tables, a mounted television, branded tap handles, metal tube stools. I order a draught and scan the snack menu, turning my attention to the TV because it’s impossible not to.
AS EARLY AS 1993, I’ve thought Bill Clinton is a despicable human being.
Self-absorbed, manipulative, dishonest, vain, and driven by animal appetites and ego.
I remember him going out for a run, during his re-election campaign, and veering mid-way into a McDonald’s.
That’s Bill Clinton—a narcissistic boy-man who’s never met an intern or Big Mac he could resist.
Imagine having the power of an American President, and squandering it on Oval Office hand-jobs. Then, bombing Sudan to distract the country from your indiscretions.
The Clintons ate people who thought they were friends. Ate them and threw the bones to the wolves.
And for those who want to talk about Bill’s charity work—notice how he splashes his name in big bright letters over everything with which he’s associated.
THE WILLIAM JEFFERSON CLINTON SUCH-AND-SUCH
So…I thoroughly enjoyed this Daily News article, headlined