After watching several videos of Donald trump’s mega-rallies, observing thousands of animated bodies raising their right hands to pledge fealty to the new beady-eyed master of presidential game theory — followed by occasionally punching out whoever dares to raise a finger in protest — I’m left with a question that burns deep within the dark chasm of my cynical, politically-independent heart.
Where the hell do all of these people come from?
And what if the answer to that question is, simply, “yes?”
Since the beginnng of the year, politicians, pundits, political theorists, campaign journalists, cultural humorists and ordinary citizens have scratched their collective heads over the raging success of a Republican candidate whose prime advantages appear to be that he talks like a guttersnipe, manages his businesses like a drunken gambler and counts as his friends everyone from Mafia dons to the Clintons.
More importantly, Trump appeals to a social network of xenophobic bigots who many Americans had thought be moldering in its historical grave, pointy white sheets adorning its mummified corpses, living politicians scrounging the borders of its cemetery like stray dogs hungry for a snack of aged meat.
Of course, I was never so naive as to believe that prejudice had left our hallowed shores with the passage of the civil rights acts. My wife and I both come from mixed white, Hispanic and Native American extended families, and we are very aware of how racism has secreted iteslf into the ugly corners of the American mind.
But Trump is about as obvious as a politician can get without, well, being a politician. While he hasn’t called outright for a White Renaissance, it’s generally understood that the paler your skin, the closer it resembles the sallow complexion of lost souls wandering unhallowed graveyards in search of new blood to infect, the closer you will come to Trump’s ideal American.
So, perhaps we were right after all. Perhaps some of his wide-eyed acolytes really had gone to meet their maker back when “The Wall” was just a really cool Pink Floyd song and not the mantra of the anti-immigrant movement. Perhaps the raging mobs calling for the torture of their enemies and of the deportation of those who are not like them are merely echoes of racists screaming for political redemption from deep below their own faded gravestones.
The answer is obvious. It lays before us as one of the Great Secrets of the Occult that any mystical master will tell you is no secret to anyone who dares open their minds to the unspeakable truth.
Donald trump is the Great Zombie Master and his followers are the risen legions of the Undead.
How else can one explain the resurgence of natavist prejudice that has not been this virulent since the Know-Nothing Party threw rocks at Irish immigrants in the 19th century?
Why else do crowded stadiums ring with calls for the nation to return to a time that only exists in the twisted memories a dying elder generation of white supremists?
Where else are leftist protesters so willing to throw themselves upon the seductive fangs of their enemies, like like lemmings drawn to the briny perfume of a seaside cliff, or essayists impaling themselves upon their own overblown metaphors?
After all, deceased politicians leading our nation from the crumbling halls of power is nothing new. As Richard Nixon proved when he rose from the ashes of the 1962 gubernatorial election in California to take the presidency six years later, dead does not mean buried.
In 1972, Congressmen Hale Boggs of Louisiana and Nick Begich of Alaska disappeared shortly before Election Day when their Cessna presumably crashed during a flight over over the latter’s state. Yet both were reelected to office, although their bodies were never found.
In 2000, US Senator John Ashcroft lost his reelection bid to Mel Carnahan, who had died in an airplane accident couple of weeks earlier. Fortunately, Mel’s wife Jean was appointed to take his place in the Senate, thus depriving Missouri of the opportunity to find out if dead politicians really do serve their constituents better than those that still know how to walk and talk.
Even dead doesn’t necessarily mean dead. It is believed by some that Ronald Reagan not only suffered from Alzheimer’s during his presidency, but that he was also the resurrected ghost of a Hollywood actor whose most recent claim to cinematic fame had been as the host of TV show called, appropriately, “Death Valley Days.”
One of the best known quotes from an American politician fell from the lips from the infamous Louisiana governor Edwin Edwards when he proclaimed “the only way the only way I can lose this election is if I’m caught in bed with the dead girl or live boy.”
If they can beat Death at his own game, then why can’t The Donald raise his own army of Undead voters to mix with his gullible living supplicants?
Even now, he urges them to emerge from the depths of a history that never existed, inflict indescribable terrors upon an unsuspecting population of Americans who still believe that they are merely viewers — and not disposable bit-players — in the low-budget horror film of modern American politics.
Beware, my fellow citizens. Beware, guests of our great nation. Donald Trump is the Zombie Master and we are soon to be food for his staggering throng.