I remember the days when the folk singers said a hard rain was a-gonna fall, and a hard wind was a-gonna blow, and a hard snow was a-gonna snow, and a hard hail was a-gonna ping off'n yer windshield.
It was fun listening to the folk singers tone-deaf imitation of the people among who I was raised.
Punchline Pres. Donald Trump, whose speech apes that of a people he has never lived among, would not rent to and will not hire to sew the cheapest of his ties, is a much better mimic that "Brushy Bill" the Yale folksinger who would have died during his first shift at an auto plant.
Trump sounds scared, all the time. He sounds Christian, and cornered, and confused. He's perfect.
I'm the bartender's son, or I was when I was a little boy, and I grew up knowing that the people among whom I've lived all my life are always good for something.
As the United States unabashedly loses the war in Afghanistan, we are reminded that we can always be used to fight, and, if we have the good sense to die in battle, we can be used as a focal point for the nation's increasingly orgiastic celebration of dead soldiers and live veterans.
And we can drive trucks, and be admission specialists in hospitals, and mop with all manner of mops, and drive a nail straight and true, and we can deliver pizza, and do warehouse work, and we are mighty and mightily underpaid.
And as we leave our sons and daughters blood behind in Afghanistan, we watch Trump start a one-man assault on Twitter, the Iwo Jima of all social media platforms.
He is not afraid, and he shouldn't be because there is no risk of coming home legless or dead. Only metaphorical blood will flow from his metaphorical wounds, reddening the sand of the beachhead as Trump struggles up the word-slick slopes of Mt. Twitterbachi.
"Get out of my way, you drunken Indian," he shouts at the non-white ghost of Ira Hayes. "This is my fight, and I'll win it though I shed many of the best words!"
This bully grasping for a soldier's death, this noncombatant, this far-from-innocent bystander will always long for the real credentials of the laboring person who has the simple guts to stand on her feet for eight hours, shoving hamburgers and fries through a window. He lusts for the honor of the soldier who may come home with no arms but who will never be a gold-plated fraud of a casino bust-out artist, forever fumbling for his next wife and his next bankruptcy.
To gain that glory, he wants to regulate or shut down those social media platforms the Russians used to help him get elected. Like a dog with a sore at the base of his tail, he bites madly at the source of his pain until it festers. Only the plastic cone of a lost election, fitted around his neck in shame, can stop him from gnawing and chewing to get at the tiny fleabite left by a black president.
Fact-checking Trump is the gutter work of the world, and I've worked as a hotel janitor, an occupation that involves some familiarity with vomit.
"Well, that's a lie," the weary fact-checker groans, "and this is a misstatement, and these numbers are... oh, what the hell?!"
Is there a fact-checkers union? If there is, the people who fact-check Trump should be allowed to retire after three days on the job. Give them the full pension, too. It's not like they'll ever work again.
But when this is over, there will be work for all, mopping up and forgetting and denying that you ever voted for this fat, traitorous slug.
And a hard sun is a-gonna shine.
To find out more about Marc Dion, and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com. Dion's latest book, the story of the battle of Mt Twitterbachi, is called "Devil's Elbow: Dancing in the Ashes of America." It is available in paperback from Amazon.com, and for Nook, Kindle, GooglePlay and iBooks.
Image courtesy of Gage Skidmore