[Shortly after the election, I started writing a three act play, a mashup loosely inspired by Ubu Roi and King Lear. Now, a month into the new regime, I think I saw what had happened and what was coming fairly clearly. So, rather than obsess over the outrage du jour, I am going to post the play here, a scene at a time.]
The White House. The Ovary Office, empty but for the Turd Chorus. If the sound system permits it, their voices should come from everywhere and nowhere.
Turd Chorus:
He's too old
He's too old
He's too old (etc. The muttering continues as the characters enter.)
Enter stage right Lear, a tall, thin, elderly, white man, attired like Henry VIII, together with Cordelia, a short, middle-aged, black woman in a conventional D.C. power suit and extremely high heels. They cross to stage left and stand there, chatting, while the rest of the entourage trickles in, all dressed in conventional D.C. power suits, except for Bernie; he's wearing overalls, work boots, flannel shirt, and a railroad cap. First, a small group of aides; then, Senators Joe Mansion and Bernie Floorsanders; then, Governors Witsome and Newmer. They're all talking among themselves.
Lear:
Lend me your ears.
The groups wind up their conversations and turn to Lear; the Turd Chorus fades out.
Lear:
Know we have divided
In twain our party; and 'tis our fast intent
To shake all cares and business from our age,
Conferring them on younger strength while we
Unburthen'd crawl toward death. Our Vermont Senator,
And you, our no less loving Senator of West
Virginia, we have this hour a constant will to
Publish our chosen successor as chief among
Our tribe of Donkeys Blue and nominee to
Win the throne of POTUS, that future strife
Within our ranks may be prevented now.
Mansion:
Well, okay. If you say so.
Bernie:
I've always stood behind you. I stand behind you now. I will stand behind you in the future. For working men and women, and their children the future workers of America, and workers of all genders, whether binary, nonbinary, or any color of the rainbow, and working people of every race, color, creed, and ethnic heritage. As opposed to the billionaire class, such as Trumpaboo. Him I neither represent nor stand behind. Nor anywhere near.
Lear:
Those amorous to unhand from me the future,
Great rivals for whatever is to be,
Long in our party have made their patient sojourn,
And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my juniors,
(Since now we will divest us both of rule,
Interest of territory, cares of state
Such as that lying, ingrate Imayahoo
And that self-styled Tsar of All the Russias)
Which of you shall we say doth love us most?
That we our largest bounty may extend
Where loyalty doth with merit challenge, battle-ground
Michigan's Governor Witsome, speak you first.
Witsome:
Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;
Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty;
Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;
No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;
As much as child e'er loved, or father found;
A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable.
Beyond all manner of so much I love you.
Cordelia:
Oh, come off it.
Lear:
What says our second contender, our dearest winsome
Newmer, of the state whose official insect
Is the California dogface butterfly?
Newmer:
Sir, I am made of the selfsame metal that my
Sister state's chief executive is
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart
I find she names my very deed of love;
Only she comes too short, that I profess
Myself an enemy to all other joys
Which the most precious square of sense possesses,
And find I am alone felicitate
In your dear POTUS' love.
Cordelia:
Gag me with a spoon.
Lear:
Although the last, not least: Cordelia, heir to
This very Ovary Office and all the powers
Appurtenant thereto should I expire
Before my term and in fell consequence
My term is aborted, what can you say to draw
Upon you now my opulent inheritance?
Cordelia:
Nothing.
Lear:
Nothing?
Cordelia:
Nothing you don't know already. You made me
What I am from what I'd made of myself
Before you knew me, and what I am I love,
And so I love you too, for taking me up. I
Return those duties back as are right fit.
Far from disavowing any of your works
On some day when that might seem expedient,
So long as it remains my duty to stand
So close that if your body falls then it will
Fall on me, I've got your back. Even
To the extent of saying nothing in public,
While the POTUS crown of thorns adorns you,
Against your shipping bombs to Imayahoo;
Although I've got to tell you, helping him
Turn Gaza into rubble and its people
Into wind-blown ashes may not help us
Retain for long the affection and partisan zeal
Of all those younger folks who put us here.
Lear:
You know I sell him weapons not from love for
Him and the power-grubbing fanatics his tottering
Rule depends upon, but from loyalty
To their people, our ancient friends and allies.
Cordelia:
But, set that aside, for now. I speak the truth:
I'm unhappy that I cannot heave
My heart into my mouth, but loyalty has that
Price. I know you've paid it; so will I.
Lear:
Then, from being one who in processions
Carries the hem of my robe, you're further promoted
To be the one to fight to be the one
Upon whose neck the cowl so heavily presses.
The carpers and critics say I pissed the carpet,
Debating Trumpaboo, and stumbling in my
Debility slicked my soles with my own water
So I should not run - though run the country
every day, I do, and well. Oh well.
Cordelia:
You'll be missed.
Lear:
To my surprise, I find that I am really
Tired of all this, and the air with which I
Formed these words that settle on you your doom,
Whether it shall be joyful or sad, leaves freely
Lungs quite ready to let it go, to fill
Instead with gases lighter and less measured.
Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown!
The more so since last year, at Trumpaboo's
Petition, corruptly the SCROTUM anointed POTUS
King, above the law for all official
Acts, for him for whom all acts are official.
This coronation was much unwanted by me,
However desired by the Pussygrabber.
I've ever aimed to serve the law, and never
To be its source and master. My head hath lain
Uneasy at night upon the POTUS pillow,
Uneasy as a kitten under a blanket.
Lear and Cordelia exit, arm in arm.
Mansion:
Well, she's fucked. Only three months until the election. How's she going to have time to teach people how to say her name, let alone know who she is? Cor-dee-lee-a. What the hell kind of a name is that, anyway?
Bernie:
It's Cordelia's name.
Mansion:
How's she going to get across how she'll be different from Lear?
Bernie:
Why would she want to? Except for that one thing, of course. They'll greet her with jubilation. We'll see if she can keep them.
Mansion:
You ask me, the old man handed her a hot potato. Gotta admire him for doing it so it makes him look good.
Bernie and Manion:
Long live the POTUS!
They laugh and exit, arm in arm.
