Bob Corker in the land of the orange god

America has undergone a metaphysical change. It is as if we have been swallowed by some hideous intergalactic Lovecraftian entity and transported to an alternate dimension in which the very ground of our being is Donald J. Trump. We’re not on the same planet anymore or even in the same physical universe. We now inhabit a Trumpian ontology. We have Trumpian physics, Trumpian chemistry, Trumpian biology. Persons, objects, events only exist insofar as they can be defined in relation to the animate orange matter omnipresent on our screens, on the pages of our newspapers and magazines, on our lips, in our thoughts. Trump apples drop Trumpward to the Trumpian earth and are consumed by wild Trump deer or else rot, their Trump nutrients enriching the Trump soil; when spring comes, the Trump flowers will bloom with a hideous neon phosphorescence under the saffron sun. Trump has become omnipotent, the source from which all of creation proceeds. If tomorrow he were to assume the form of an enormous quasi-immortal space worm, he would not have more power than he currently exercises over every American, living or dead.