"Are you for 'surreal?'" -- A quote from the film "Putney Swope," a 1969 comedic political satire about a black man who won a corporate election because voters thought nobody would vote for him.
It was like a brain on something far worse than drugs. A headache, both mind-numbing and unexpectedly nauseating, that seemed to emanate directly from the pineal gland -- which some call the Third Eye -- located right in the front-center portion of the brain.
It reverberated an effect akin to that of a thousand Steinways crashing down the elevator shaft of a 40-story building, as it flowed inward along a path toward the back of my head and through my ears, barreling its way through my senses like a biological smoke alarm.
Indeed, it was an alarm of sorts -- one attuned to react more to stench than to smoke. And it was set off by the increasingly horrid odor of a massive national brain fart taking place in real time.
That headache was my brain caving in after its nightlong effort at deciphering the completely irrational train of thought which led to America choosing as its designated driver, the racist crackpot who's never driven a car and who carries on in public like a drunk. Not surprisingly, after reeling from the incomprehensible stench of a Great American Bowel Movement that flowed unabated on that post-logical Election Day's Night, all I was left with was a mind that was terribly wasted.
Nearly a month later, the remnants of this condition linger. And for good reason. It is now beyond doubt: If the United States of America is indeed blessed with a degree of "exceptionalism" unparalleled in the history of the world, then the idea that the vastly ill-prepared Donald Trump will soon become a sitting American president -- while an overly-prepared Hillary Clinton sits at home -- is hands down the most ridiculous irony in the history of mankind.
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