We all are pretty sure we've got a good bead on things, don't we?
Recall with us all those sage words of Agent K of 'Men in Black' deserved fame:
"Persons are smart, people are ignorant panicky things and you know it....they think they've got a good bead on things..."
Ouch, the truth does sting, doesn't it (or, don't it?)
He went on to remind us, stingingly, that those same peeps knew the world was flat not long ago, closing with 'just imagine what they'll know tomorrow'.
Well, tomorrow's come and so has Mr. Trump, President-Elect.
In order to better understand this present moment it's probably useful to flash back to ancient Greece, you know, that culture ours was sort of built upon, at least in theory---democracy, republic, anyone, anyone? Ah, yes, you in the back, with the pencil holder in your pocket, phew. Ok, it's not entirely Greek to us; let's proceed.
So, now, we're pretty much relying on a blind dude with that American-sounding name, just one name, by the way, Homer; the way he tells it (think Andy Griffith channeling Mark Twain here on, in his early stand-up daze, YouTube it, hilarious) this here gal what every dang soul in the country, including them shepherds who one's heard tell are quite fond of they sheep, says is some looker, yessum. Now, here's part of a nice little poetry thing, writ by some feller name of John Morin, to get us begun:
Paris, visiting Mycenae,
Spotted Helen, the city’s queenie;
She spotted him; the sparks they flew;
Her hubby, Menelaus, never knew,
And when the Trojans put to sea,
Helen was stowed aboard with glee.
That there My Seeny, reckon it's a neighborhood in old Greece's neck of the woods.
Anywho, you've got this here feller Hector, he's from Troy, and, phew, what a fighter---his own name, it means to harass something terrible, look it up in that dictionary, if you want proof; on t'other side is that Greek hero feller, Achilles, what was so powerful only an arrow shot into that part of your heel that's named for him could do him any harm, yessum.
Well, old Homer he tells it like this: them sneaky Greeks, led by ole Ulysses, that rough neck what killed that Cyclops feller and did a whole mess of great things way back, gave this big wooden horse to the Trojans, see, as a kind of show of respect---Heck, took them 10 years to fail to break into Troy's gate and rescue their gal, Helen. So these Trojans, they're all feeling pretty happy, looking at that creature, must've been from their gods (they had lots of them then). Bingo, out pops old Ulysses and some Greek warriors, and it's homeward bound for Helen.
Why all this jabbering?
You remember it was said that Hector, even Ulysses have names that've practically become verbs, see? That other writer, he's gonna take back this here article; me, I'm gonna just keep admiring that horse.
Back to the future---Trump, already a verb whose application is so very relevant given his conquest of those who so embraced a certain blonde lady who, while hardly appealing to that namesake, was likely the Trojan horse metaphor who liberated (liberal?) her from peril on many fronts had she remained iconic to those Trojans. After all, she was accustomed to gold waters back in the day, in her native land of the Demos. Ahem.
And, like Ulysses it may be Grant..ed (you saw that coming) that one Mr. Donald J. Trump has lulled the folksy folk of America's Troy and sent old blonde haired Helen...back (Hell and back?).
Think of it as a quasi-religious act, the avatar of all in the name of some.
Stay tuned; if this is wrong-headed Pollyanna tommy rot, we'll blame it on that Griffith/Twain fellow channeled above.