LE TROMPEUR – THE UNFIT PRESIDENT
“Maya,” Je Suis Moi called out over the paper to his alter ego as she prepared lunch in the kitchen, “the editor of The Welandian said that the first president of Melandia was unfit to hold office. The French called him Le Trompeur.”
“Rubbish! I don’t know why anyone, let alone you, Je, would want to read that trash. I thought he was your model.”
“What did you say?”
“The Welandian is obviously fake news,” Maya pronounced as she carried a tray into the living room of their little apartment in Crete. “I made this sandwich especially for you. This ancient panino al polpo fritto recipe is from Independent Puglia. It’s the favorite dish of the Sacra Corona Unita.”
“Wow, fried octopus sandwich!”
“You’ll like the anchovy sauce I made for you.”
“Yummy, this is very, very great, a nice touch of chicory, and heavy on the ricotta. You know, we could do something similar, bake instead of fry it, open a little art pizzeria in Chania where we could sell octopi paintings and pizza to the tourists. You wouldn’t have to trek up to the cave every day to hawk your Rape of Europa drawings of us in 101 positions, and I could quit my dishwasher job.”
“Let me see that disgusting paper.”
Maya scanned it impatiently as she nibbled her sandwich.
“So Le Trompeur was impeached?”
“No, his cabinet tried to declare him insane and remove him. His attorney general and secretary of state were killed in a plane crash, and he fired the rest of them. Instead of removing him from office, Congress elevated him to Dear Supreme Leader.”
“I see. It says here that the fact was that he was unfit to rule, yet he crushed the opposition and dazzled the ignorant masses as he embarked on foolish enterprises, and that proved his greatness.”
“Yes, he was the greatest, that’s for sure, greater than any other that can be thought of. That is why he was unfit. No description fit him.”
“But the editor writes that he was a ‘horse’s rump, a pretentious, opinionated, overconfident, pompous fat ass, the People’s Fool, a moron leading idiots unable to judge for themselves.’ And listen to this. ‘Worst of all, Le Trompeur was a sadistic, malignant narcissist bent on total disintegration of vulgar society into social insanity, a massive idiocy perpetuated by his irrational, loose-cannon tweaking of the every-twittering mass media. ’ I cannot imagine why you would want to read this trash, Je Suis Moi!”
“Well, you like reading it back to me, my dear. The truth is that we love power however it is exercised for whatever ends. Le Trompeur capitalized on the I-go that would endure forever without resistance.”
“But, Je, there is no I-go without resistance, for it is the response to the universe of discourse that identifies the I-go. And the responsible person responds appropriately.”
“Yes, the person is the I-go modified by being. All beings have being in common, and what is appropriate for different beings is not universal without imposition of the Total. In any event, being is definitely opposed to the prior existence of an I-go unless it is identical with being.”
“What the hell?” Maya toyed with her octopus sandwich.
“The I-go craves absolute power and can never be satisfied with the existence of other existences, particularly when the matrix becomes crowded with them. Le Trompeur represents the death instinct, what we call the dark or evil side of nature or god, the bad-mouthing satan without which there would be no good. He is a simulacrum of the great deceiver, devoted to the destruction of the competition he hates. The destroyer is a perpetual motion machine, an anarchist who would be the Anarch, the last anarchist standing, naturally beyond good and evil.”
“So we agree! You should not be reading that trash!”
“Maya, my dear alter ego, this trash asserts truth by opposing it, by saying truth isn’t true. It only reinforces my own position on this Earth, and yours as well, for without each other, where would we be? Still you need to understand that I am your original.”
“I understand very well that I am under you, and that has been my mission since I escaped from Welandia and we fled from Trump Island. I do not understand what you mean by original, and this, word you keep using, ‘simulacrum,’ is Greek to me.”
“’Simulacrum’ was the title of the simulcast potcast of Musk the Great.”
“He was the man who bored a tunnel under Los Angeles and eventually was incinerated in his solar machine when he flew into the Sun?”
“That’s our Icarus. He was impressed as a young man when he read Descartes the Great after drinking some peyote tea. He became convinced there is no reason to kill each other because we are just being dreamed and the dreamer will survive forever and ever. Furthermore, we are free to create as many existences as we want out of nothing. In other words, existences do not really exist because they are simulacra or simulations.”
“Then tell me, Je Suis Moi, who is the dreamer?”
“My dear alter ego, you are looking at him, and you are my dream girl.”
xYx
