Donald Trump, when he has no idea what to do, why, how, where or when or to whom, goes back to breaking the cease-fire that never was and takes to bombing Iran again. Whether this means he doesn’t receive his cut of the three hundred million—what? er…hmm…three hundred billion dollars he promised Iran so it could “rebuild” all the stuff we bombed, remains to be seen. This is the “art of the deal“. We bomb you, we pay you, you pay me. In my first term, I tear up the accord you signed with Obama, then say you did the precise thing you agreed not to do in the now defunct treaty, Netanyahu whispers sweet nothings in my ear, telling me I’m a modern Ramseses the Great or whatever and voila, I bomb bomb bomb, bomb bomb-Iran. Hey, that could be a catchy song! Not only that, we gave you de facto control of the Straits of Hormuz! That’s worth a lot more than the fifty billion I want for my cut.
Mere speculative fiction, I’m sure, but somewhere in this mess of a ceaseless-fire there’s an angle. At any rate, when tragedy morphs into farce and then slides right back into tragedy again, we’ll always have parody. So I have chosen perhaps that perfect, quintessential rock song, Bruce Springsteen’s “Born To Run”, to salute our president as he doubles down on the catastrophe of his presidency and spreads his brand of joy to the entire world.
“Baby We Can Bomb Iran”
In the day we set ICE out on the streets
To crush a runaway American dream
At night we fly down to Mar a Lago
And ride golf carts to the greens
Sharp as a whip, I feel so fine
I’ve won seventeen wars and
Cuba’s next one over the line
Ohh Mellie, D.C. rips my toupee from my scalp
I’ll tear down the rest of the White House
Be sure to give me five stars on Yelp
I’ll leave this country neck-deep in dung
Burn the Constitution, I promise we’re almost done
‘Cause when all else fails, baby we can bomb Iran!
Yes matryoshka, we can…
Mel’nia tell Putin I wanna be his friend
I wanna guard his dreams and visions
Just wrap yourself in luxury clothes
And keep your eyes on Barron
Together we can smile for photos
We’ll grimace till we drop, you and I will never get back
Whoah, can you point me to the nearest exit
‘Cause I was a terrified and humiliated lonely child
But I gotta know how it feels
I wanna know what it is to be a man
I wanna know if I’m even real
Oh can we bomb Iran again…
Bridge
Soon Palantir will have hemi-powered drones
That can track down my enemies
Gaza will be open for business
And Netanyahu will listen to me!
My gigantic arch will rise ugly and dark
Immigrants can drown in the Rio Grande mist
Stephen Miller says let them die tonight
They never will be missed!
Ugh!
One, two…what comes next…Eleven! You didn’t know this but I’m really great with numbers, I
was the best subtracter at Wharton, everyone said so…
The Beltway is jammed with broken zeroes
On their last chance power drive
They’re all jumping ship as my mind slips
And there’s no place left for them to hide
Together, Hegseth, we can do dead lifts
And bomb countries with all the madness in our souls
Hooo, someday Petey, I don’t know when
We’re gonna blow up the world which we really want to do
And we’ll walk in the Gaza sun
But till then creatures like us
Baby we can bomb Iran!
Ah Petey, sad little men like us
Baby we can bomb Iran!
Come on everybody!
Bobby Junior! Little Mikey Johnson, Clarence, Alito, my cutesy handmaiden Coney Barrett
and Miller and Thiele and Murdoch and all the asses I’ve had to kiss
Kristi, Vance, and Bondi and Comet and Blitz!
All you MAGA martyrs out there!
Baby we can bomb Japan!
Is that right? Which country was I supposed to say?
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