The Unnamable

A Horse’s Ass with No Name.

By Derek Davis

In the midst of the current rat race for president, there has been much hand ringing and dyspepsia about the damage the nomination of a certain "candidate" might bring to the country or (I would hope) the Republican party. Its ascendance cannot be permitted, all dedicated commentators and political analysts proclaim. But how are we to blunt the simplistic appeal and bloated arrogance of this rotund guttersnipe?

 

The cure is obvious, the weapon simple.

 

As you will see, its name is never below directly mentioned – and that is the entire arsenal.

 

Few take the time to look at Pmurt the being. First of all, it is not a new-fangled fascist. Fascists need a belief in something beyond themselves. Pmurt, as fragile as a Ming vase, has no belief in anything beyond its name. For all its wealth and oleaginous manipulation, it is a frightened adolescent bad-boy that has never grown up.

 

You may be lucky enough not to recall your own teen years, but perhaps you have had a teenage child? Doesn't Pmurt look familiar with its blundering swagger, the sweat rolling from its over-active glands, its face a massive zit on the verge of bursting? Ugly, grotesque, horrific – but we were all like that, back then. Should we hate it because it became stuck in a developmental time loop? Or should we perhaps pity it?

 

All its railings and grandiose blather are attempts to prove itself to the world (and to itself), to escape that underlying, quivering terror that it is not good enough, that everyone is laughing at it. And since at least 75% of the electorate has, indeed, been doing exactly that for the last decade, that drives it ever crazier. Unbalanced, unhinged, disturbed, what it wants above all else is perfect vindication.

 

So here's the simplest way to rid the political scene of this incomplete absurdity: Never mention its name! Pmurt equates itself to its name, a pocket talisman that it can pull out for comfort or slather across everything but its underwear (though ... maybe?), a continual cry for justification.

 

What to do when it appears in public? Call it Pmurt. Oh, that's not enough, you say, that still justifies it through ass-backwards acknowledgement. So how about a wild-card search fill-in: p***t? Or just p   t? No, I agree – still not good enough. Instead, let us spread our hands and mouths wide and shout "    ."

 

God rest you,     . And may Santa bring you an entire anthracite mine.

 

 

 

Published December 17th, 2015


Derek Davis is an old coot living in the far hills of Pennsylvania. Once he was editor of the predecessor to the Philadelphia Weekly. He's published a novel and a handful of short stories and has lots of good stuff stashed away to pass on to his progeny. God knows what they'll do with it.