Scapegoat?

With that laughing Buddha for his perruqier creating a political reality show for the zombie world, or as René Girard characterized it as one's desires as in accordance with the desires of others, yes the pinnacle of hominization. Utilizes none other than the unifying power of a common enemy, blessed are the meek for they will inherit the earth, and we certainly want our fair share. Conflict created looses it's first inception well before the end of rivalry, battling as stubborn clans at war for decades on end.

Scapegoat? Is democracy creating it's scapegoat, that final throw at the visage of capitalism? Desire creating the ultimate persona, catapulting him into the throne of our present most powerful earthly collective bailiwick. The aggregate human consciousness tormented by the absurdity of the 1%, yet not desiring total war, inflicts upon one unsuspecting narcissist the illusion of grandeur and votes him into the oval office.

Inevitable failure follows. He loses the chess match with Putin. The Chinese dice are loaded with technology, he loses. The Mexicans build the wall with sacks of coco leaves, more bountiful than concrete, just for fun. The conflict first created is lost to history as the financial world implodes. No bombs drop, what is the use? But blame must be levied. Disillusioned masses catapult bunkers and airforce one takes to the skies followed by three million lasers. A sole parachute opens in the clouds. The great declension, oh mirror mirror on the wall. We have our lamb, our sacrificial lamb. What to do with him?

“See my hands” he cries, “They are normal, and the rest of me is normal too, at night I dream of babes like every other red blooded male. I am created in accordance with your desires. We have trampled the establishment, subdued them to superficiality. Believe in me, we shall be great again.”

Life goes on, it must. The rivers still flow. Corporations everywhere abandon all, the slaves are freed, mother earth replenishes. The armed forces come home, kissed to death. Latinos climb the wall, returning fondly to their native lands. Five million Palestinians march silently around Jerusalem for forty days and forty nights armed with one white flag, much head scratching ensues. The Islamic State declares victory and sets up a peaceful homeland. Houses everywhere are respected for their intent and everyone finds something to suit their needs, gardens bloom in abandoned roadways. Home crafts prosper as talents are appreciated. No law and order, no chaos, love thy neighbour. Bicycles rule. Life goes on, it must.

They leave him hanging, the ropes caught up in the branches of a fine old oak, his feet six inches from the ground. Their sacrificial lamb has saved them. From what? It is rather a mute point, at this point, it is. Survival depends on much hard work and coaching, no time for contemplation. They are great once more, desires sacrificed on the old oak tree, although greatness may be subjective, it is our desire as in accordance with the desire of others. So it would seem.