The President Has No Clothes

Hans Christian Anderson reminds us how self-deception occurs.

As President, his greatest care was and is to be well-dressed. There was/is no need to attend Covid conferences with Governors; much too early in the morning, or visit the border, too many immigrants, a fear of catching whatever they are bringing with them, or review his military troops, even address a full Congress.  But the clothes make the man. How he is dressed is most visible to the clever and competent, he is assured. When asked where he is, it is his chamber that finds him, alone or with a few, his handlers, his valet. He will appear when steady, when ready.

One day President Joe found new a tailor, the MSM Tailor's extraordinaire, they who could weave the most magnificent of fabrics they could imagine or for that matter that Joe could imagine. Their fabrications would be of the highest quality. They would be of the most vivid colors and patterns and to anyone unfit to receive him, as his entourage, unfit to be chosen to be on his staff or to be part of his Party, his dress would be invisible. To the"Stupid" he was just plain Joe.  in this way Joe would know those who know from those who know not, the progressives from the supremacists, the socially adept from the racist, the woke from the folk.

Much has been paid to have the weavers not only convince the President, but his peers, of his elegance, his intelligence and his infallibility.  A trip or fall to be seen by them as normal steps for Joe.

The MSM tailor's extraordinaire, the weavers, having been paid, took the finest of fabrics and set them aside to then weave from nothing.  Their tapestries consisted of shirts of deception, suits of pride and undergarments of prejudice.

A Nation aware of the weavers as swindlers, the President’s base paid little attention. Thinking as they did of the masses, “Oh how stupid can they be.”  To them the year 2022 will reveal what they know and the President’s progressive cabal cannot see.

The President sent his next in charge to provide an honest assessment of the weavers work. The looms were empty, yet even the veep sees nothing at all, but remains still, quiet, and says nothing. The weaver brings the veep closer, the heads of Congress joined, having accompanied the veep, and see nothing, and ask themselves,”Are we fools?” But they cannot let on that such is the case. So they go along to get along. Their jobs, their power, too important to themselves to be honest. So they say,”it is beautiful, enchanting. Such a pattern, such brilliant colors. The borders are exceptionally crafted. We will be certain to tell the President of his good fortune, when he awakens.”  His nap times were essential.  

The weavers were pleased. They explained all the details of the new clothes, so they would tell Joe. The weavers then asked for more money so they could make more clothes, while instead pocketing their largess.  Their trump card was their weaving prowess, the ability to put forward ordure as gardenias to be as accepted by Joe’s jurors as vindication.

President Joe sent others, Trustworthy, a servant led them, to find out when his new suits and ties would be ready. They two looked, saw nothing but empty rhetoric. When asked by the weavers, "Isn't it all so good?”  

“Am I stupid?,” Trustworthy asked himself. “So, it must be I am stupid and not worthy of my Cabinet post”. But he two decided to please President Joe instead, “It is delightful, I am spellbound. You will love your new outfits.”  His staff agreed.

Then President Joe came to see for himself.  So many were saying such wonderful things about the weavers, the MSM swindlers. Many of his Party joined him.  They saw too what the others saw, empty machines, empty suits. “Magnifique!” they sounded.  They stood, they clapped, they patted Joe on the back, they grabbed and tugged at Joe’s shoulders, “How handsome you will be.  What great designs.”

Joe then thought, “What?  I do not see a thing. This is troubling.  Am I a fool?  I am President! I was chosen…. Oh, how beautiful it is.  I love the colors.  I approve!”

While seeing nothing, the entire Party approved, then joined their leader, Joe, saying, “It is all so perfect.  Joe you must wear them soon.  Especially when you appear before your people.  They will see the grace, the charm, how distinguished and great you look.”  Joe then responded by celebrating the weavers, awarding them the golden medal of suitability excellence; the title as Presidential MSM Tailors.

“Take off you clothes and try these on,” asked the MSM weavers.  The pretense continued, one article of clothing after another.  Buttons buttoned, fasteners fastened, zippers zipped. “How well you look Joe, so perfect, so suitable.”  

The Cabinet ministers, Congress heads and veep announced, “Your people await you, Sir.”

Joe replied, “I think I am ready. Come on man, am I?”  A remarkable feat. “Where is the mirror.  One last look. Fantastic.  I see greatness. Do you all agree?” To which the lemmings nodded, eyeing each other, heads bobbing, in accord.  

Following Joe, the throng saw what they saw, in denial, never admitting his butt was exposed.

To those whom Joe appeared, watching, “Oh how splendid the President looks in his new clothes.  They fit perfectly!” No one could admit the truth, the bare truth. Joe’s new costume was a success. 

Then a child leaned in towards his dad and spoke, “But President Joe has nothing on.” A hush followed.

“Did you even hear of such ignorance,” said the father.  But the whispers spread throughout the audience, “The child said the President has nothing on; the MSM weavers have fooled us. The CNN green screens show only elegance, but we see what the child sees, do we not?”

The crowd then began a chant, “Joe has nothing on.”  He was as a hunter without his red warning gear, a chauffeur without a limo, still prepared to shoot, to drive, and to be lead astray.

It was cold.  Joe felt the cool air, he shivered, he shriveled. But then, then, the parade, the charade, must proceed.  So Joe walked proudly through the crowd, his whiteness on display, his entourage loyally flowing seeing him cloaked as if in black, with gilded epaulets, prancing as a peacock with imagined feathers, remaining clueless to reality.  He did, however wear a Covid mask. 

by

Thomas W.  Balderston

Note: Thanks to Hans Christian Anderson for his inspiration.