Ted Cruz and the Twilight Zone Election of 2016

George H. W. Bush 'the Elder One' refuses to vote for Trump, and may even vote for Clinton purely out of spite. The old man is obviously butthurt over Trump personally embarrassing his son in front of the nation, but at least he has some honor and sticks by his family.

As we're all well familiar, Donald Trump insulted Ted Cruz' family, called his wife ugly and threatened to 'expose her secrets', whatever that means. He generated attention towards conspiracy theories that his father was involved in the murder of JFK. He effectively labeled him as 'Lyin' Ted', and as a final, penetrating thrust, insinuated that he (GASP!) wasn't a true scotsman American and may not have even been eligible for the presidency in the first place, bringing attention to his Canadian-ness.

Ouch. That last one? That's a doozy.

So how does ole Teddy respond to these constant attacks on his person and family? He tells The Donald that he's immoral, a liar, unfit to be President, creates a whole bunch of drama and feet-stomping over it, and just yesterday, endorsed him in a lengthy Fecebook post which has garnered over 100,000 'Likes'.

... yes, you heard that last part right.

It seems particularly low, even for a politician, to trade in his family's honor for some vestige of power, scraps of power, or promises of scraps of power that no one will have any real obligation in fulfilling -- and it doesn't seem Cruz has any good bargaining chips left to hold them accountable to it. If Donald Trump were a career politician who relies on maintaining a reputation of back-door deals, the situation would be different, but that's just not the case. Naturally, Trump is going to get a significant boost out of this, and I wouldn't be surprised to find out that many #NeverTrump folks follow in predictable Fibonacci fashion, whether they publicly admit it, or not. If Clinton was finally coming to the realization that things were going to be a lot more difficult than she and her outrage machine expected, before, then she's going to be having a lot more trouble, now.

But I digress from the purpose of my post, and I'd like to culminate this all into a little story...

You and others are herded into a large room. You look around and see individuals from all walks of life; young and old, rich and poor, black and white, and any other arbitrarily drawn lines between them you can think of. Trump's presence is amongst you, and you were all brought here to legitimize this event. Whether you actually wanted to be here for this or not, it still wasn't your choice today, just as it wasn't yesterday, or the day before, or the day before that. It's part of the whole point, I guess. Any public, ritualistic expression of power isn't merely for the sake of the domination of one individual over another, after all.

"Enter, the Dishonorable Senator Cruz from Texas!"

Heavy doors open, slowly, with a thick haze emanating from its void. It looks empty, like there's nothing there. Was this a ruse? Did ole Lyin' Ted pull a fast one on The Donald as one final slight? Could there be, perhaps, a sliver of honor left in this man?

The haze diffuses throughout the audience. It has a putrid stink to it, and you cover your mouth to lessen the heaviness of it all. Still, nothing... until you look down. From the void you catch the glimpse of a heavy mass coming into focus. Its movements are unnatural and lethargic. What is this wretched, cursed thing? Could this be some lowly, devolved beast? A creature that natural selection had still yet to eliminate from whatever unholy environment it had borne from?

With baited breath, everyone waits.

Suspense turns to impatience until, finally, you and others recoil towards the sight of the foul thing that emerges. Alas! It is Cruz, as initially expected, slowly writhing on its belly towards Trump, leaving a foul-smelling kind of trail in its wake. It tosses itself forward, much of its mass concentrated in its head, an agonizing look on its twisted face.

Thump. Slap. Thump-thump. Slap. 

Finally, it worms its way up to Trump, groveling at his feet, its tiny meat-hooks at some point in its miserable existence having probably been arms, reaching, as it slinks up to and 'grabs' ahold of Trump's leg -- begging, mewling, not even for crumbs, but the mere promises of crumbs from its overlord, Trump. The Donald flicks his foot away, similar to how one might try to remove the feces he had just barely started to, but not yet fully, stepped on.

It opens a hole in its face you can only assume is a mouth. Noises come out. No one understands, but no one really cares, neither.

It grimaces and lets out a pathetic sigh. It slumps to the ground, no longer managing the energy it takes to hold itself up, resigning itself to whatever fate awaits it. How could this foul, feeble thing have survived for as long as it did?

A quiet, awkward moment passes, dragging out the spectacle. Trump stands there, like a statue. The others are looking at eachother, unsure of what to do. The event is painfully uncomfortable to witness.

The creature lays there, isolated, rejected. Its inadequate protrusions stretched out in front of it, the putrid trail connecting it to the feet of its overlord.

"Please!", you cry out. "Let us finish this chapter in the Theatre of the Absurd! End this poor, miserable creature's suffering, for its own sake -- and ours!"

The Donald's face moves slightly, and he glances down at the thing. His face melts into a kind of mix of disdain, disgust, and annoyance as he places his shoe closer to the creature's face.

Its head hangs low while it looks up at its master, who stares back down at it, unflinching, unfeeling. The creature capitulates under the weight of his eyes, and curls into itself as it pushes out a shaky tongue towards the sole of The Donald's foot, which is pulled back a few inches. The Donald grabs his belly and laughs, and the room stays quiet. It laments and musters the last of its energy to inch forward, but buckles.

For a moment, silence.

Suddenly, the thing starts wheezing. Its breathing becomes erratic and its body and sad protrusions start to convulse. The Donald is unmoved by this, and stares. You and the others look down and away as you hear the final death rattle, and then, nothing.

...

The crowd disperses. On your way out, you hear a frightened child ask, "Mommy, what was that ugly monster?"

She responds softly, trying to comfort him,"Shhhhh. It's okay, my child. That thing was once a man, a long, long time ago."

It backfires and the child becomes agitated. "But... mommy, does that mean I could turn into a monster like him, one day?"

The mother is caught off guard, realizing she must choose her words wisely. "No, honey, but living your life as a politician sure won't help."