[Growing up in South Africa, satire became my arm for dealing with Apartheid. Something that continues to see me through times like today’s.]
When Trump was ousted after his first term, I thought to myself, Never Again! Never again would I support that unbearable mass. Yet here Bibi Netanyahu is being ushered in, while Donald grills his august rump at the fireside. Hands are shaken Donald-style, XXL with a grip devised to wring the life out of a rat. Or wipe the smirk off Bibi’s face. But no flinch mars that mouth’s slight leftwards twist, the little cut in the upper lip a rumour of violence inside. Who am I?—might you ask. I am the Oval Office’s presidential chair. Four-legged stand I, yonder the heavy desk. Padded succour for weighty men, rear-view witness to worldly events. An extraordinary chair, I proudly add, both sentient and telepathic. And obstinately empathetic, in spite of having to keep the company of politicians. How long have I been here?—I cannot say. My earliest memory is Teddy Roosevelt reporting to William Taft, his successor, on his Smithsonian scientific expedition to Africa. How he and son Kermit combined science and pleasure by shooting 512 animals, large and small (1). That horror-show knocked the living daylights into my previously inert frame. I was shocked into telepathy by the sight of Nixon and Kissinger plotting Salvador Allende’s demise. Suddenly, I could walk the warped landscapes that Realpolitik had wrought in their minds. So here is Bibi, and between his ears it’s party-time, as though he’s won the jackpot, or some obscenely rich relative died. Donald has just revealed his vision to Make Gaza Magnificent Again—turning ruins into riviera, as easy-peasy as changing water into wine! When Bibi entered, his head had been in a hesitant place: how to navigate Donald’s ire, because notwithstanding the firepower he’d gotten from Biden (just don’t mention that name), Hamas’s troopers were still sporting spanking new ninja apparel and taking their Toyotas to the carwash. Taking Bibi by the arms, Donald declares that the US is going to take over and own Gaza. He will dismantle all the unexploded ordnance. He will disappear the destroyed buildings and rebuild it all anew. There is nothing more exhilarating than real-estate resurrection involving condos by the sea! And a casino! “And I don’t want to be cute, I don’t want to be a wise guy,” says Donald, awed by the breadth of his genius. Inside his head, the social truth sings: “What Donald wants is Donald’s to possess, that is the natural order of things!” Then Donald speaks unto Bibi. He has instructed Jared, his son-in-law, to go down to Gaza to inform the people that it has become a hellhole, and that they must leave. That his father-in-law will conduct them into the desert, where He shall build them housing (or tents, if no one is prepared to pay for anything better, and that certainly won’t be America, but might be the Egyptians, Jordanians or Saudis). That it would be nice if they showed Donald an ounce of gratitude at the very least, but a ton would be really welcome. That they will live there forever after, though He couldn’t guarantee whether it would be happily (and He didn’t really care). And Bibi thinks to himself that, just as the waters parted for the Israelites, so should the desert sands part for the Palestinians. Just briefly, before they whoosh shut again. And I think to myself: the Israelites go home, and the Palestinians are kicked out. With these two waxing biblical, Realpolitik has taken a surreal turn. At which point a quandary arises in Bibi’s mind: A) Donald is going to take Gaza off his hands, and it’s carnival time in his head. B) But first Bibi has to get rid of Hamas. Except that the more lethal force he applies, the more un-get-riddable they appear to get, as others join the fray to avenge the dead. C) And then there are the hostages, goddamn! How annoying of them to let themselves get kidnapped, putting his political survival on the line! (2) All of a sudden Elon—who has been sitting in the president’s chair (aka me) making rocket sounds while he tries to figure out how to make electric rockets fly—jumps up, arms windmilling. “Palestinians? I’ll send any who have tunnelling expertise to Mars!” (3) And if they wish to come back—sure thing, but only after they’ve paid off the fare, outward-bound and back. And given Martian wages, that’s not going to happen tomorrow. Or the day after that. Joseph Rabie Next: Elon tells California to grill baby grill 1) https://www.vox.com/2015/7/29/9067587/theodore-roosevelt-safari for a complete list of who shot what. 2) Netanyahu’s far-right coalition partners threaten to bring his government down if the release of the hostages is in exchange for a lasting cease-fire. 3) He borrows this from Hyperion, work of science fiction by Dan Simmons. -- # distributed via <nettime>: no commercial use without permission # <nettime> is a moderated mailing list for net criticism, # collaborative text filtering and cultural politics of the nets # more info: https://www.nettime.org # contact: nettime-l-ow...@lists.nettime.org
