The comic strip ran so long, that when
Lucy withdrew the football she feigned
to hold for Charlie Brown’s kick-off,
we ultimately assimilated that she was
not a team mate but, for all the endear-
ing mirth in her first or second jest,
she was nothing but a chronic saboteur
of her own tease. My, how gamely Charlie
Brown did bounce off his ever-trusting
backside, as he slipped on one yellow
peel after another in her deceptions,
as in, I'll sign any bipartisan bill a
majority wants. But that was last week.
In the sickeningly familiar, dirty old man
intonation he reserves for such occasions,
to entice the naïve republic into his limo
with a candy bar, he framed another above-
the-fray deception between heroic portraits
in the East Room of the White House, to an
audience of dress-uniformed conscripts for
the photo op. Now petting the very wings he
had ripped from scores of butterflies there-
yet another pronunciamento, for his very per-
sonal Department of Justice to frame as some
kind of enforceable restraint on the inter-
state sale of force multipliers for homicide
machines. Naturally, one could not expect a
national prohibition against the enjoyment of
the many dozens of thousands of such devices
already in circulation, to say nothing of in-
vading their yeomanly trading at the sacred
suburban Ballistics-and-Brew bazaars which dot
the map, proliferate online, and invigorate
our fairgrounds. His judges have seen to it.
Do we remember wondering, after a while, why
Charlie Brown kept on falling for Lucy's joke?
Was it because he'd been raised as a trusting
boy, or because he had no idea of "pure evil"?
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