Royal Apothecary Ladies Await

Armageddon is upon us but white women will have their abortions, no matter what. Something is coming to an end, either just America or the world--I can't tell which--but Democratic women are manning the abortion booth at the Republican Renaissance Faire. A bang-up business it is, as you can imagine. 

Everyone wants a pro-choice sticker for their donkey cart, right? Before virtual reality there was role-play. Republicans have recreated anachronism as a political force, insisting on free time and improvisation instead of something resembling policy and work. Attach the armor and gird the loins, trusty steward, Donald will fight the horrid heathen with his big sword, as did Bush, under corporate sponsorship, and with mead and a feast of venison at the end, a predetermined, celebratory outcome.

It's all fixed. None of it is real. Their estate is kept afloat by vassals and serfs.

His father initiated the thing, buying Donald adventures while alive and endowing his son's future with amusement. Donald will wear laurel or there will be shutdowns and tantrums. No wonder his interest in professional wrestling. Generationally, these Republican battles are more medieval than modern, abounding with elder knights reeling and lunging with swords at fake, feeble and starven enemies. Think like Wall Street, an insular game. The silver-haired, boastful host's vanity keeps him always in view. 

Enter the ladies of the Royal Apothecary, whose potions prevent pregnancy or end it if that fails, marching in place of the jousts with their handbills and banners, interrupting the spectacles. However socially responsible, they are horrible entertainment and they are heckled and driven away with a fusillade of ripened fruit and other stuff--anything the crowds can get their hands on. Masses must be amused and the mistresses remind everyone of shrews and spoilsports. Who wants responsibilities?

Donald and his disciples intend to expose unwanted infants on hillsides and rocky places instead. And even some wanted ones, just for fun. The wenches are condemned for political correctness and comeliness lacking. Meanwhile, the games continue, all funded for Donald by bankers whose logos emblazon his shields and cover his steeds. Mind-numbing profits are made. A portion is spread thinly among the rabble, ensuring docility and contentment. One has to play the game, to some degree. 

That is the moral of this episode. Democrats can't win back the working classes with a platform brandable as promoting transexuality and infanticide. You wonder why so many working people voted for Trump? Wake the fuck up, fair ladies. Before 2020, if possible. It isn't the reality that counts anymore, it's the branding, and the bad stuff is very well branded. It's buried, in fact, in fanfare, trumpeting and pageantry.