I have often urged my readers to get their hands on a copy of "The Lottery," a deeply compelling short story written in 1948 by Shirley Jackson. Early on his presidency I mentioned that Trump was the winner of the lottery this time, and not the kind where you get money but the kind described by Jackson. I have now concluded that Trump's fate is even worse than that of Jackson's protagonist.
In the story, set in a time that could be anytime and a place that could be anywhere in America, an annual ritual called The Lottery is held. The townsfolk gather at the appointed hour on the same day every year, and each one, including old folks and little kids, draws a number from a hat. Whoever gets the number that has been predetermined by the town leaders as the "winner" is compelled to come forward and stand still as each of the townspeople picks up a rock and throws it at him or her. (This was written back in the day when there were only two sexes.)
The rock-throwing continues until the person is dead. Then all the townspeople calmly return to work, or back to their homes to finish eating lunch, or continue with their knitting, or milking the cows or whatever it was they were doing before.
So it will be if Trump loses the election. Despicable journalists like simpering Anderson Cooper or smug Rachel Maddow or downright nauseating Chris Hayes and the rest of the malignant mainstream media (Chuck Todd, Dana Bash -- yuk!) will pack away their knives, pick up their violins and begin a four-year serenade to Sleepy Joe and Miss Kamala, with nary a look back at the man they had spent the last four years torturing, demeaning, insulting, and ultimately destroying.
It's sickening.
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