Stranger than fiction

Sleepless man
Image courtesy of Graur Codrin and FreeDigitalPhotos.net

It happened one night…

I had watched the 11th Republican Party Debate, wrote a blog post, and then headed for bed. But I couldn’t sleep. The 2012 Republican candidate for President Mitt Romney’s scathing criticism of the current Presidential primary candidate Donald Trump played in a loop in my mind’s ear.

In the aftermath of Romney’s awakening, the political cauldron exploded. It seems that the conscience of the Republican hierarchy – or is it “aristocracy” –awakened. The establishment doesn’t want Trump…but the genie is out of the bottle…or is it more like Pandora’s box has been opened.

I sought solace in sleep; but to no avail.

The seductive sleep nymphs refused to allow my conscience to shut down. “Only the innocent sleep…” they whispered. They tried to lure me back to my computer. I refused to get out of my warm bed.

Seconds later, I found the computer on my lap, open and running, waiting for me to try to put this chaos into words.

“Write!” one of the nymphs ordered. “No sleep until you do!”

“If you’re going to dictate this, why don’t you write the whole damn post yourself. Why use me for your dirty political tricks?”

“You have credibility.”

“And, you don’t?” I challenged the nymph.

“Unfortunately, we don’t. Those who believe in us are those who write epic novels and the poets.

Point well taken.

“Did you not see what those people did to that African American who protested at one of the Trump rallies? Didn’t it remind you of that fateful night in 1949 when you watched from your third-floor window in the American House in Yerevan? How the army of KGB officers tossed those children and old women and men onto those trucks? Who used their clubs and rifle butts to crack the heads of those children and old women? You must remember; how could you forget.”

I wanted my mind cleared. I wanted those thoughts to go away. I didn’t want to get involved. Go haunt and taunt others. I am sick and tired of writing and fighting. No one listens, anymore. Just leave me be.

The sanctimonious Mitt Romney had spoken. He had labeled billionaire businessman Donald Trump a “fraud” and “phony” and said that he, Romney, “…will never stop until we keep this con man from taking over the party of Reagan and Lincoln and the conservative movement.”

There was silence in the bedroom…but I knew from the epic stories about them that the night nymphs didn’t give up without a fight. I knew I couldn’t compromise with these ethereal messengers of my mind and believed that the sooner I carried out their dictates, the sooner sleep would be mine. I could hear them mumbling, but nothing coherent seemed to emanate from these ghostly figures of my mind…until I heard…

“Caesar had his Brutus…”

“And King Charles I, his Cromwell…” said another.

“And Donald Trump, his Mitt Romney!” chimed in a third.

The voices continued, “Treason! Treason!”, rising above the maddening Republican masses. “To deny our anointed one the sacred garland of victory, and his right to challenge the heretic queen could awaken Kydoimos, God of Confusion, Uproar, and Hubbub, whose wrath would surely doom our conservative cause and end our momentum toward obtaining the kingdom!”

What are you saying? That it wouldn’t Make America Great Again? Well, maybe, then, it could make America whole again…

“May I go to sleep now?” I wished.

“There is still one more task…Obama’s legacy.”

Sorry, out of my jurisdiction.

“You must give him a message from Lord Cromwell. Mr. Obama has had enough sleepless nights,” the nymph continued as a sheet of paper feathered its way into my hand.

I read it. “No way…” Did Cromwell actually do this? Well maybe.

It seems that the Lord Protector of England, Scotland, and Ireland got so sick of Parliament sitting on their royal derrieres and getting paid for doing nothing, that he stormed into the chambers and told his lawmakers:

“It is high time for me to put an end to your sitting in this place, which you have dishonoured by your contempt of all virtue, and defiled by your practice of every vice……and like Judas betray your God for a few pieces of money…Is there a man amongst you that has the least care for the good of the Commonwealth? Ye sordid prostitutes have you not defil’d this sacred place…Ye are grown intolerably odious to the whole nation; you were deputed here by the people to get grievances redress’d, are yourselves become the greatest grievance. Your country therefore calls upon me to cleanse this Augean stable, by putting a period to your iniquitous proceedings in this house…In the name of God go!”

I can dream now, can’t I?

***

bookTom Mooradian was one of 151 Americans who traveled to Soviet Armenia to repatriate during the 1940’s. Thought to be a spy by the KGB, Tom miraculously survived 13 years behind the Iron Curtain winning the hearts of the Soviets through his basketball prowess.  Filled with political drama, romance, and intrigue, Tom’s autobiography, The Repatriate reads like a novel, and will have you guessing how Tom managed to return to America alive.
The Second Edition is now available on Kindle and in Paperback!

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6 thoughts on “Stranger than fiction

    1. Donny, I think we’re all dreamers! In my humblest opinion, Donal Trump is living proof that even the most negative person on earth can succeed in business and in politics.

  1. Excellent column Tom . Corruption exposed by the corrupt and surely “Pride comes before the fall”.

    Almost contacted you today, then your column appeared.

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