You Say You’ll Change a Constitution, Well, You Know…

You Say You’ll Change a Constitution, Well, You Know…

By Christopher Platt

I looked up John Lennon’s lyrics for this article last night. Funny, when you GOOGLE, “You Say You Want a Revolution,” the breadth of the folks who have misappropriated that song’s opening line for their own work is pretty stunning. I looked up “Revolution” because I had a wonderful daydream yesterday, and came out of it singing the old Beatles’ song for the first time in 35 years. But I couldn’t put it all together until I typed this line of the song in atop this page. See, Lennon wasn’t calling for a revolution. Quite the reverse. He was trying to tone down the rhetoric in angry times. Well, you know, we all wanted to change the world. And angry times are here again. I think this nation needs some kind of peaceful changing of the guard. An awful lot of power is accruing in the Executive Branch these days, and nobody in our pathetic Legislative Branch seems especially eager to do anything to stop it.

There are still 17 months to go until our national process of renewal happens again. And my growing fear is that this time around, that hard-won Constitutional process, abrogated on the way in, back in 2004, may be abrogated permanently on the way out in 2008. You know, I’ll bet good money I’m not the only one who feels this way, either.

And last week there was that wonderful Viagra-like vision: A bunch of Blue-tinged people hugging themselves with glee. I refer to the YearlyKos show for Progressives and Liberals in Chicago, wherein I saw hopeful citizens from around the country proudly come together to hear the same olde crap from the Democratic candidates, who were there to vie for our support. So, let’s see… Hillary still wants to take money from special interests. So does John. Barack wants to bomb the shit out of Afghanistan -- and Pakistan, too, if it doesn’t shape up. Dennis wants to impeach Dick, which would be a wonderful place to start if Nancy hadn’t already told us that “Impeachment is off the table.” Chris came into Chicago with Bill O’Reilly’s blood on his hands – good work, Chris! But somehow, I’m not impressed. It’s all about the Internet, so it’s all good, but I think we need someone more assertive and, well, more decisive.

I guess all this was what led to the daydream I had. Oh, factor in the recent news story that George Bush’s grandfather, Prescott Bush, had actually plotted a fascist coup d’etat against FDR …

In the daydream, I’m watching the White House from across the street. A dozen enormous, white, stretched Hummer Limos glide up to – and right through – the gate. Car doors open and out spill a hundred tough-looking men in white fluffy-bunny suits, heavily armed with colorful Super Soakers ($17.99 at Toys-“R”-Us). They quickly overwhelm the security forces on guard at the White House and slip inside. A blindingly white helicopter hovers overhead – clearly flouting the government’s No-Fly Zone, with a variety of antennas bristling from its fuselage. There’s a name splashed boldly along the side of the chopper, but I can’t quite make it out.

The air is crackling as these antennas give off some kind of jamming signal to prevent word getting out about what’s happening at the White House. In five minutes, all resistance has been silenced, or at least thoroughly moistened (although, truly, they didn’t seem up for a fight). Another ten white Hummer limos drive up, and more Bunny-suited men jump out, taking up positions around the perimeter of the grounds, while a second helicopter joins the first overhead.

Finally, the biggest damn’ white stretched Hummer ever, drives up. It’s way too long to turn into the curved driveway, so it pulls in and stops next to the side entrance where bemused tourists are still lined up, waiting to get in. The back door opens and out strides a man clad all in white. His walk exudes confidence, and the sneer on his face when he confronts the damp, defeated White House guards is evident even from a block away. He turns to look back towards the street where I’m standing, and smiles. And now I recognize him. Jesus! It’s Donald Trump! I can see his shiny gold helmet from here. Oh wait. That’s his hair.

The Donald strides into the White House and, after a decent interval, emerges with several of his white rabbits, who are leading out two hunched-over figures with those embarrassing plastic handcuffs binding their wrists. Omigod! It’s Bush and Cheney! A few more minutes and more bunny troopers emerge, dragging Karl Rove, David Addington, and their entourage of evil, similarly bound. They are all made to stand silently IN a PEACH TENT the bunny brigade sets up by the driveway

Trump, looking triumphant, gestures to a beautiful blonde perched on the fender of his über-Hummer. She’s wearing a different kind of bunny suit, by the way. She puts her fingers together -- and blows. A sharp, short whistle, and a half-dozen TV network vans screech to a halt behind the line of limos. It’s a press conference. The Donald is saying that these guys swore to “preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of the United States," but then did just the opposite – and how there was no other way to get these goons out of the building, and out of power, in a peaceful, timely way – for nobody else has Trump’s superior intellect, dazzling leadership and interpersonal skills, and borrowing clout.

A big Step Van is backing up to where they are assembled. It is clad IN PEACH paint. And the name TRUMP is emblazoned on its flanks – ahhh! That was the name that I couldn’t make out on the choppers. Trump tells the reporters that, after their fair trials, all those found guilty likely will be working at something special for the next few years. Under the strictest supervision, they will be tasked with cleaning up – literally – Walter Reed Hospital, to make it worthy of caring for the thousands of America’s wounded that they are personally responsible for. Their friends, assistants and loyal supporters (now, apparently, being rounded up elsewhere in Washington and around the country by other rabbit regiments) will, if convicted, be sent to New Orleans, to live out their days in mold-infested FEMA trailers, spending every remaining day of their lives cleaning up the long-festering mess they should have taken care of after Hurricane Katrina.

America is being returned to Americans. The nattily dressed tourists waiting to enter the White House are told that the recent edict banning visitors wearing flip-flops, tank tops and other casual clothing has been rescinded. It’s their house, too, after all. Trump personally hands out fuzzy-bunny slippers to the tourists, and the crowd erupts in a ragged cheer! Now, Trump turns to the dejected miscreants, cuffed and miserable. He grabs Bush by the arm and shoves him into the van clad IN PEACH paint. Now, don’t get ahead of me here, people. He grabs Cheney and flings him into the vehicle, too. He puffs out his barrel chest as only the The Donald can, smiles, and proclaims, “You’re fired!”

And I found myself standing there with a smile, singing, “Don't you know it's going to be… alright, alright, alright.”