It is an American Election Day and this morning, in the dark before sunrise, Donald J tRump seems a very small and petty presence on the national stage — a street urchin who stole into the theater at midweek, and has been horsing around with the scrims and the lights and the set pieces, breaking things, pushing all the works to their mechanical and structural limits. He has just found the flying rig from Peter Pan!

“…a tumbling, bloated and bellowing boy, horribly scared of heights, shrieking at the operator at once to sweep him higher faster, and to land him…”

More than anything he wants someone to strap him in and fly him around but there’s no one here who knows what they’re doing. He can’t do this for himself, and besides — he’s too dumpy for the harness, and not agile enough to carry off the illusion anyway.

An audience, seated in the witness chairs below him, would see no soaring, elfin spirit aloft — but a tumbling, bloated and bellowing boy, horribly scared of heights, shrieking at the operator at once to sweep him higher faster, and to land him. The audience would duck! Parents would arc their backs over their children in the seats below. Their shrieks would echo his. No one would enjoy the spectacle. Not a soul. Please: for everyone’s safety, bring that tRump child down. Lower him, take him by the arms and escort him OUT of the theater — now. Goodness. It’s going to take weeks to find and fix everything he broke. Get him out. We have work to do.

And send Animal Control up to the house, while you’re at it. Snare the snarling, spitting spawn of the incumbent — box them up and cart them out of town. You can release them in a wildlife refuge — or better, a hunting preserve.

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