Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones:
Laus Veneris
(Between 1873 and 1878)

"…once the sour spoilage this incumbent leaves behind as legacy, finally fully decomposes, thank Heavens."

Rarely has an anticipation received such an enthusiastic public reception. News of the impending event has become an obligatory element of every edition of every paper and news program across the spectrum, from amateur podcasts to stately professionally-produced broadcasts: video, audio, and print. Each morning first carries news of astonishment that our beleaguered and clearly ailing incumbent has somehow managed to survive another night intact, though he reportedly gleefully appears worse than when last reported. More makeup has invariably been ineptly smeared over some fresh rotting part of his body, typically the other hand. His ankles continue to swell, defying geometry as well as gravity. He’s clearly cognitively not quite what he used to be yesterday, and certainly worse than he was the day before. His demise always seems inexorable.

He enjoys an unusually asymptotic relationship with his demise, though people often depart by way of seemingly infinite increments. Few seem to fall in a single fell swoop. Old soldiers do, indeed, seem to fade away, and so, apparently, do old frauds. Few, though, hold such an enthusiastic audience in thrall as they exit, dramatic tension growing greater with each disappointing day’s passing. Poised for an unusual celebration, the beer cooler ice keeps melting and needing to be replaced, and nobody even imagines relighting the long-smothered hamburger-and-hot-dog fire. The children no longer hover to witness the blesséd event, which their elders insist will be long recalled as historic. They will be called someday to remember when, to have been a faithful witness to this divinely-inspired event. The extraordinary has devolved into the disquieting ordinary, as if it seemed perfectly respectable for the villain not to die near the middle of the third reel. One wonders if time will be left for redemption and heartfelt celebration before the movie finally, seemingly inexorably ends. Will this sorry story stretch into a fourth reel or even, regrettably, further?

No chief executive has had a greater death wish. Even he seems to see that he holds no remaining successful moves on his great self-sabotage chessboard. I suppose he’s too infirm to tip himself over, or, more likely, he holds sustaining delusions of eventual redemption. He probably imagines someone magically appearing to pay his substantial bail, though such an outcome seems to everybody beyond any likely pale. Like everybody, when he dies, he will remain dead forever, though his present decidedly undead state will very likely hold the bulk of his legacy going forward. He will be curiously fondly remembered, if he’s remembered with any clarity, which seems unlikely, as the president who teetered on the edge of death for the bulk of his foreshortened second term, a zombie presence remarkably uninterested in administering anything and, at any rate, incapable of administering even if some spirit might have moved him to try. It never did.

Maybe not today, and perhaps not even tomorrow, but eventually, this absolute bastard will disappear. Yes, then comes the short, sad, utterly accidental tenure of, shudder, President Vance, but he has none of the questionable charisma of his soon-to-be predecessor, and the gift of having been born with his left hoof in his mouth. He will hold authority like that baby monkey holds his stuffed animal toy, with its stuffing trailing out behind. He will be welcomed as an inept replacement for a malignant mistake, and history might well hold him acceptable, given the regrettable alternative he replaced. We are blessed in the meantime with this slowly burning fuse. We know for certain that our nearly universally reviled incumbent will not be much longer for this world, and this one realization has at times felt like the only real possession any freedom-loving citizen has actually owned.

I expect to miss the reliable anticipation, like how the best part of my vacation often occurs over the week before I depart. One day, my good old days will be remembered as filled with warm anticipation of the bootheel finally disappearing from the back of my neck. History will probably let out a collective sigh of extreme relief as it comes to believe again that even the most evil activities of mere men always inexorably come to an end. The cult this clown built will very likely evaporate upon his departure, just after the predictably overly elaborate K-Mart-catered state funeral. A collective sigh of relief and release will be heard sweeping across this once-again potentially great future nation, once the sour spoilage this incumbent leaves behind as legacy finally fully decomposes, thank Heavens.

©2026 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #EndDays, #PureSchmaltz