The only light, these days, that flashes in Joe Biden’s otherwise dead shark eyes appears when he’s surrounded by children, his favorite thing — allegedly perversely so, if his own daughter’s diary entries about inappropriate showers with her at “a young age” (the censorship regime has done a bang-up job scrubbing reporting on this diary; thankfully, the web archive never forgets) are to be believed.There is an idea of a [Joseph Biden], some kind of abstraction, but there is no real me, only an entity, something illusory, and though I can hide my cold gaze and you can shake my hand and feel flesh gripping yours and maybe you can even sense our lifestyles are probably comparable: I simply am not there. It is hard for me to make sense on any given level. Myself is fabricated, an aberration. I am a noncontingent human being. My personality is sketchy and unformed, my heartlessness goes deep and is persistent. My conscience, my pity, my hopes disappeared a long time ago (probably at Harvard) if they ever did exist. There are no more barriers to cross. All I have in common with the uncontrollable and the insane, the vicious and the evil, all the mayhem I have caused and my utter indifference toward it, I have now surpassed. I still, though, hold on to one single bleak truth: no one is safe, nothing is redeemed. Yet I am blameless. Each model of human behavior must be assumed to have some validity. Is evil something you are? Or is it something you do? My pain is constant and sharp and I do not hope for a better world for anyone. In fact, I want my pain to be inflicted on others. I want no one to escape. But even after admitting this — and I have countless times, in just about every act I’ve committed — and coming face-to-face with these truths, there is no catharsis. I gain no deeper knowledge about myself, no new understanding can be extracted from my telling. There has been no reason for me to tell you any of this. This confession has meant nothing.
—Bret Easton Ellis, American Psycho
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The rest of the time — despite the best efforts of its handlers to dress up the decomposing corpse, apply make-up to his face, and inject whatever pharmaceutical cocktail they inject into him to arouse him for the briefest of public appearances (usually ten minutes maximum) as a proof-of-life thing — the puppet fails to convey the impression of being fully present.
Biden’s problem, though, runs much deeper than dementia; his incrementally more obvious dementia merely serves to highlight the more essential, fundamental, universal issue of the politician: they are, nearly without exception, total fakes. Every facet of their persona is a focus-grouped illusion, the product of calculated, Machiavellian projections — a genre of sorcery for ugly, immoral magicians.(This is why, for instance, the politician routinely manufactures self-aggrandizing stories out of thin air with such ease; lying is their default mode.)
Even their names and ethnicities (e.g., Elizabeth “Pocahontas” Warren) are open to such machinations.
Happy Thanksgiving from Senator Elizabeth Warren. pic.twitter.com/6CeWqPot6S
— Dom Lucre | Breaker of Narratives (@dom_lucre) November 23, 2023
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These are not human beings with human emotions in the sense that you or I are human.
Rather, these are actors, many of them diagnosably psychopathic, too unbecoming to make it in a proper acting career, constructing elaborate identities, with the aid of overpaid consultants, that they believe will move their poll numbers. There’s literally nothing they wouldn’t do if they thought they’d enjoy a 0.5% bump in their favorability ratings out of it.
One recalls the following iconic scene from “Tropic Thunder” depicting the existential crises that actors very likely experience at some point in real life.
