Manifesto 2

OBU wants to “Stop Enabling Her Overly Dependent Adult Child.” He's only 71 years old, but demands rent money and oh so many admiring words. “What a good oral report you did for school,” you tell him, after he reads from a small card he pulled from his suit coat. “What do you want me to know?” is one of the questions. OBU feels an instant of great hope, believing that Man-Child will say the right words and—dare she say it?!--feel them, too. Shortly after, OBU realizes her stupidity. Dumb as rocks.

“Too many times parents overly rescue their children from their problems.” A standing ovation makes the man-child feel better, though the silence of the mirror would make him cry, if he could. “You've been through such pain,” he tells the students and the parents, “and we won't let this happen again.” As if he's Big Brother or something. But he's man-child, so he proposes “a fix.” To their problems, not his.

I imagine Man-Child at the laundromat, trying to wash his clothes. He has no quarters (what billionnaire does?) so he tries to stuff bills in the slots. He's got wads of them, like Drake. Can't find his dirty clothes (his woman-child is reputed to have left him) so he puts wads in the washer. They'll be clean, if only he can get it on.

Man-Child has a woman problem, a Putin problem, a model problem, a nepotism problem, a concentration problem, an ego problem, a hair problem, a bald spot problem, a Korea problem, a gun problem, a debt problem. And that's for starters. Can't decide how to make his list. Would he kill the dog or cut down the tree? Would he kill the horse or the snake? Would he sing that song again, asking his audience to imagine immigrants, legal ones? Will it be hair or Korea, model or gun? What rises to the top, what sinks to the swampy bottom?

Does your president act entitled? Does he require a title, like “45” on his cuff or “45^th President of the United States of America” on a card at his table?

Are you afraid of hurting Man-Child by taking away his privileges? Do you entrust him with the family musket, the one covered by his favorite amendment? Do you leave home while knives are in the drawer, or do you hide them among your clothes, the ones you used your own quarters to clean? Do you try too hard to fix Man-Child's problems? Do you drive him to look-outs to put out brown bags full of cash for playboy bunnies? Do you offer him spending money for his hook-ups?

Do you do Man-Child's homework for him, looking up Korea on Wikipedia, and reading graphs of dubious origin off the internet? Did you tell Man-Child about sources, which are good and which not? Did you tell him his best buddy got indicted for “crimes against the USA”? And how do you respond when he says no, it's all fake?

OBU admires the theater kids in Florida for their #NeverAgain. OBU knows that theater kids recognize the true from the fake, trauma from self-regard. Man-Child's men call them “crisis actors,” brought in from kid-farms to pretend there was a shooting, and that white mothers weep to make good ratings. The actors say he reads his lines pretty well, so they know he's for real. “I hear you” is Number 5 on his card, the one that says “The White House” at the top.

OBU wants to make a pilgrimage to Trump Tower in NYC. She wants to lay a wreath there, or a lei. She wants to weep against the dark granite, and pray for sustenance. She wants to hang out at the restaurant (not many stars for their burgers), resemble a burgher in a Rembrandt, staring out with stolid Dutch eyes in a square Dutch face at what happened to the island where Man-Child resides. She wants to see herself in gold-encrusted glass before she picks up a vase (the one that magically blackened the eye of Man-Child's aide's wife) and flings it.

Man-Child eats raw glass for breakfast. He calls for ketchup to dab around the edges of his mouth. He adds salt, passes the shards to his son, and leaves, nearly tripping on his tie. Man-Child wants his son's teacher to have a gun, because he knows the teacher loves his son in ways he cannot ever feel. That shard of glass in his colon reflects badly on a remnant heart, by which I mean metaphor. You are the bus driver and your passengers all have their own directions. Whose advice will you follow? Or will you pick up your AR-15 and mow them all down, happy to effect a good day's work? Go home to your steak and eggs, and make of your blood-drenched shirt a pillow case. We'll sleep this off. We always have.