Viva la Zone

Last night, in the suffocating sweatbox of a suburban Philadelphia exhibition hall, Donald J. Trump stood on stage, basking in the sweltering adoration of his followers like some grotesque Caesar. Beside him, a vision of Midwest grimness: South Dakota Governor Kristi Noem, known for her impeccable smile and the more niche fact that she once executed her dog and a goat.

It started out as your standard Trump rally: MAGA hats bobbing up and down like poorly anchored buoys in a sea of misplaced patriotism, flags flapping, people chanting about walls that will never be built. And, of course, Donald Trump was up there, spewing a mix of half-truths, conspiracy theories, and sentences that have the coherence of a toddler let loose on a typewriter. But the heat? Oh, the heat was real. The air in that overstuffed hall was thicker than Trump’s wall fantasy, and the crowd was packed in tighter than his tax returns in a vault. Then, like some biblical plague, the first one dropped.

Someone fainted—just crumpled like a cheap suit in the sun—and Trump, that towering icon of empathy, paused his ramblings for a moment. A man of action, he wasn’t. Instead, he glanced awkwardly around as though waiting for Kristi Noem to step in and solve the problem by executing a passing pigeon. Noem stood by, likely reminiscing about her dog’s last moments, maybe even wondering if there was a fainting attendee she could swiftly dispatch for old time's sake. Not today, Kristi, Trump must have thought, we're here to entertain the people, not send them to the pearly gates.

Then it happened again—another collapse. More bodies hit the floor. Trump’s sense of urgency? Minimal. He noticed a few people in the back making a break for the exits, and suddenly it hit him: he had to do something, anything, to keep the dwindling crowd from flat-lining. Enter “Plan B.”

“Let’s not do any more questions,” Trump declared, likely thinking this made him sound like a benevolent god. “Let’s just listen to music.”

Ah yes, the solution to all problems—when your audience is passing out from heat exhaustion, crank up the music. And not just any music. This playlist would go down in history as the most bizarre, tone-deaf mix of tunes ever to grace a political event. As the bodies cooled and the EMTs rushed in, Trump’s DJ queued up the first song, and boy, was it a doozy.

"Ave Maria" – Pavarotti

Of course. Nothing gets the blood pumping and the feet dancing like Ave Maria. There we were, in a literal Trump rally, where people were fainting from dehydration like extras in some Dantean nightmare, and the solution was to play Ave Maria, performed by Luciano Pavarotti, no less. Pavarotti’s voice boomed through the hall, angelic and ethereal, like the disembodied voice of a celestial judge wondering what in the hell was going on in that room.

Trump stood there, arms awkwardly at his sides, his face contorting in confusion, as if someone had just told him that facts still exist. Meanwhile, Kristi Noem—who, let me remind you, has executed both her dog and a goat—stood by, perhaps hoping that the somber strains of the song would drown out the incessant buzzing of flies drawn to the heat and despair. The irony of Ave Maria at a Trump rally? It was thicker than the humidity in the hall. A song traditionally reserved for religious ceremonies and funerals now soundtracked the mass fainting of MAGA faithfuls.

But it wasn’t just the religious connotation that made it insane. It was that this song was supposed to revitalize a crowd in desperate need of electrolytes, not salvation. If anything, it felt like we were witnessing the slow ascension of souls leaving their heat-stricken bodies, guided by Pavarotti toward some air-conditioned afterlife.

"Time to Say Goodbye" – Andrea Bocelli

Oh, you can’t make this up. The second song to grace this tragic circus was Time to Say Goodbye by Andrea Bocelli. It’s almost as if the universe itself was trying to send a message directly to Trump, one that could only be delivered by a blind tenor with a gift for subtlety that far outstrips anything Trump has ever encountered.

The song filled the room like an operatic goodbye note, hanging in the humid air, and—dare I say it—sounding eerily prophetic. As the second fainted body was being carted off by EMTs, Bocelli crooned about saying farewell, and one couldn’t help but wonder if this wasn’t just the playlist DJ but fate itself hinting that maybe it’s time for Trump to pack it in. Time to say goodbye to what, exactly? Democracy? Reality? Trump’s dwindling sense of self-awareness? Maybe all of the above.

Kristi Noem stood there, expression blank, probably thinking about the time she dispatched her beloved goat with a swift shot. I imagine she could see herself in that moment: Bocelli’s voice soaring, the goat’s last breath slipping into the ether. Meanwhile, Trump, ever oblivious, might’ve thought this was just another one of his entrance themes.

The crowd, confused but obedient, stood there, some swaying lightly to the music, others perhaps questioning why they had ever left their air-conditioned homes for this fever dream. Noem, still dreaming of pet eulogies, stood firm. A true patriot.

"It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World" – James Brown

And then, this happened. As if the whole thing weren’t already dripping in irony, James Brown’s It’s a Man’s Man’s Man’s World started booming through the hall. Of course, who better to soundtrack a Trump rally than the Godfather of Soul lamenting the male-dominated world that—spoiler alert—Trump absolutely embodies?

Picture it: Trump, the ultimate avatar of fragile masculinity, standing on stage beside Kristi Noem, who, as we know by now, didn’t hesitate to put down both her dog and a goat. James Brown was rolling in his grave. This was a song about how men have, essentially, ruined everything—and here we had a man who seemed determined to prove that point by running for office again.

Trump, blissfully unaware of the irony, probably saw this as his personal anthem. This is a guy who thinks being a man means wearing ill-fitting suits and throwing fast food parties at the White House. Meanwhile, Noem likely felt a pang of cognitive dissonance as the lyrics played. After all, it is a man’s world, but she’s the woman standing next to him, waiting for her turn at the throne—and perhaps wondering if she should have executed her dog again just for extra buzz.

The crowd? Oh, they were loving it. Why? Because they weren’t listening. To them, it was just another banger from Trump’s post-apocalyptic Spotify playlist. They swayed, they sang, they sweated, and a few more probably passed out in the heat.

"Y.M.C.A." – The Village People

And here we are. We couldn’t have a Trump rally without this absurd anthem. Y.M.C.A. at a Trump event is like ketchup on a well-done steak: you don’t want it, you don’t need it, but you’re getting it whether you like it or not.

The Village People’s iconic anthem—a celebration of camaraderie, youthful fun, and, yes, a wink at the LGBTQ community—blared out across the fainting masses, and Trump… danced. Oh, yes. That horrific dance. The man has the rhythm of a broken washing machine, his arms flapping in that slow, agonizing manner we’ve come to dread. This is the same guy who probably couldn’t find a YMCA if you dropped him at the front door, yet here he is, grooving to the beat, likely thinking this is his connection to the people.

Beside him, Kristi Noem smiled through gritted teeth. Y.M.C.A. was playing, but Noem was probably imagining herself back on the farm, executing another innocent goat. The crowd, on the other hand, embraced the absurdity with full fervor, throwing their arms up to spell out the letters as if they weren’t aware of the song’s roots. If only the Village People could see this.

"Hallelujah" – Rufus Wainwright

And then, dear God, Hallelujah. Rufus Wainwright’s haunting rendition of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah poured out of the speakers, coating the rally with a layer of unintentional existential dread. This was no longer a political event—it was a spiritual crisis, set to a soundtrack.

Trump, of course, didn’t care. To him, it was just more noise, filling the gaps between his ramblings. But for anyone with even a sliver of self-awareness, the song was like an epitaph for the night. Here was a song about brokenness, despair, and the search for meaning… playing at a rally led by a man who can’t even find his own hairline.

Kristi Noem stood there, possibly reflecting on her animal executions with a sense of quiet pride, perhaps even planning her next book: How I Killed My Dog and Loved It. As Wainwright’s voice echoed across the hall, you could practically feel the irony seeping through the cracks in the MAGA hats.

"November Rain" – Guns N’ Roses

And then came November Rain, the ultimate anthem of moody self-reflection. As Axl Rose’s voice poured over the sweating, fainting crowd, Trump probably stood there imagining himself as some tragic rock god, lamenting the loss of his power. Of course, the irony here is that November Rain is a song about inevitability—about facing the fact that time and love both slip away, no matter how hard you fight it.

But Trump? He doesn’t do self-reflection. He probably thought this was just another power ballad to rally the troops, never stopping to realize that he, too, is slowly slipping into political oblivion. Kristi Noem, meanwhile, was likely thinking about how much smoother her dog’s execution went than this rally.

The crowd, however, was in awe. This was the moment they’d all been waiting for—a rock anthem to soundtrack their devotion. Never mind that they were passing out faster than Trump could file bankruptcy.

"Nothing Compares 2 U" – Sinead O’Connor

And then, as if to top it all off, the playlist gave us Nothing Compares 2 U. Sinead O’Connor’s voice soared through the hall, singing about loss, grief, and the void left behind when someone you love is gone. Trump, as always, was oblivious. He likely heard this song and thought it was about him, basking in the idea that nothing compares to him—because, in his mind, he’s still the best thing that’s ever happened to America.

Meanwhile, Kristi Noem stood there, likely reminiscing about her goat’s final moments, knowing full well that nothing did compare to the satisfaction she felt when she executed it. The crowd, however, was probably feeling a mix of emotions, mostly confusion, as they tried to square their love for Trump with the fact that they were listening to a Prince-penned breakup anthem.

"Rich Men North of Richmond" – Oliver Anthony

And finally, the last act of this tragicomedy: Rich Men North of Richmond. This song, a populist anthem about working-class struggles and the corrupt elites, was Trump’s pièce de résistance. The irony, of course, is that Trump is exactly the kind of “rich man north of Richmond” that Oliver Anthony is singing about. But self-awareness is not exactly a hallmark of the Trump movement.

Trump stood there, smiling as the song blasted through the speakers, thinking this was his song. The crowd cheered, likely unaware of the fact that they, too, were being swindled by a man who lives in a golden penthouse and doesn’t give a damn about the working class.

And so, the rally ended, with Trump still standing, Noem still smiling, and the crowd still fainting. The playlist, a tragic reflection of the movement itself, was a hodgepodge of irony, misplaced nostalgia, and tone-deaf bravado. And somewhere in the chaos, you couldn’t help but wonder: maybe it really is time to say goodbye.

Goodnight, Donald. Goodnight, Kristi. And goodnight, sweet goat.

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Ken D.

Portland_ken on Tuesday, October 15, 2024 – 02:12 pm

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Trump town hall was sabotaged

Trump town hall was sabotaged by the democrats who disabled the air conditioning and staged fake medical emergencies. Just like how the busses at Cochella were held up by the Democrat mayor and the California Highway Patrol.

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Mice elf

Bss on Tuesday, October 15, 2024 – 02:28 pm