Henry William Bunbury:
A Hail Storm
(1800-1820)

"The Squall has started, and the world shudders in heartfelt anticipation."

Historians will later argue over precisely which idiosyncratic action ultimately did in his administration that, by its own admission, never seriously considered administering anything. There were no shortages of idiotic actions; the very premise of his tenure seemed anchored in stupidity, and that’s not just me speaking. By a very wide margin, the majority opinion became that his election had been a grave mistake, for his actions had finally awakened us from the most tenacious trance to overtake the nation since secession, and it had been every bit as poisonous. But when inflation rose at a nearly unprecedented rate, and the reality of what had been touted as big and beautiful finally came into ugly operating focus, people felt compelled to reject whatever had once been his mandate. He quickly became the most unpopular incumbent ever, after he blundered his way into a forever war that would never end any war. Then his delusions rendered him intolerable.

A Squall of past-due Comeuppances suddenly emerged. The rush to the exit of what had so recently been perceived as the rocket to success became enormous. Those fleeing unsurprisingly turned on each other. Flurries of disclosure clogged up the commentators’ morning missives. The incumbent would have needed a thumb the size of Cleveland just to begin hoping to plug the resulting leaks. Secrets, by which I mean long-unacknowledged, well-known facts, finally found irrefutable evidence, and the Oval Office became a denial machine, pumping out fresh refutations nobody, especially not them, ever actually believed. It became every person for themself, even those who hadn’t shown evidence of possessing a self in ages. All those formerly merely unqualified for public service turned indictable overnight, and they knew it.

It suddenly feels as if this might be a fine time to be alive, a sensation that had been on vacation since the earliest days of this administration, which refused to acknowledge any responsibility for administering anything. The denouement finally arrives, and we can begin to revel in the marvel of We, The People again. Nothing like a serious illness to render healthiness fresh and exciting again. We can safely start constructing a fresh catechism. We remember the names in sequence, like we did as Watergate unfolded, as each infamous player emerged to assume their eternal Shakespearean role. I wonder who will play Alexander Butterfield this time, and who will emerge as John Dean? Each character will become archetypal, cast in familiar attributes from the ancient past, older than the Old Testament and fresh as the morning news feed. I feel as though history’s been reconnected and a future might manage to emerge after all the fuss, feathers, and first-degree murders. Do I dare feel refreshed after witnessing this ongoing obscenity?

We start daring to discuss who’s next and who’s still stuck on first. A future tentatively emerges, not offering promises yet, but shadowy glimpses of authentic hopefulness. The overlong, dark, soulless night starts showing flashes of dawn around distant edges, and we dare to dream again, to imagine decency being the currency of our realm again. Our faith in ourselves and, especially, in our neighbors, swells as we notice whose signs they display in their front yards before the fateful midterms. I gain a sense of solidarity again as I drive around town. An upswelling of positive energy appears. What had always seemed like obvious lies to me suddenly seems to seem that way to everybody, and gravity settles into familiar territory again. The promises our incumbent traded on to gain office have all proven themselves false in practice. Worse, he continues to exhibit tremendous indifference toward all the damage he has inflicted. We, The People, might be tolerant, but we always eventually—sometimes excruciatingly slowly—prove ourselves decent in a pinch. This pinch seemed far worse than a mere squeeze of recognition. It seemed to try to strangle our essence right out of us. It failed.

As the Comeuppances come in reassuring volumes, we can imagine our ship of state might one day right itself again. We still have Hell to pay, for the incumbent opened the gates of Hell, apparently for fun and personal profit, and we’ll be responsible for the bill—small price to pay, I say, for renewing our collective faith in ourselves. Our personal and societal Comeuppances will come along with all of the much more satisfying ones we’re pleased to witness visiting the least of the rapidly departing public officials. People speak hopefully but no longer wistfully of the demise of the Republican Party, that they, gratefully, might no longer ever be capable of election viability. They mortgaged their future for little more than a bag filled with bullshit. Perhaps we can finally put to rest, at least fitfully, the whole notion that personal freedom exceeds personal responsibility, and maybe we have finally gained enough respect for the rule of law to hold our judiciary accountable to We, The People. The billionaire class took it in the shorts this time around, and their share of the coming Comeuppance should rightfully exceed the share of everyone else, save the MAGAs. The insurrectionists who imagined their Heaven manifesting here on Earth barely managed to produce a believable Hell, and the backlash might convert them to pursue more honest, self-respecting work in the future, or not. The Squall has started, and the world shudders in heartfelt anticipation.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #Comeuppance, #PureSchmaltz