We’re ruled by Bad Baby.

He stamps his little foot, and pounds his little fist.

He’s still learning to talk, and forgets what he’s learned. He mixes up his words. He mispronounces. He threatens.

He says things like: “You better love me, or else!”

He wants. He wants everything. “Mine,” he says, “All mine. Give it to me.”

“I want the Nobel Peace Prize because I stopped all the wars, even those that never started. I stopped five wars, no, six, no, seven, no, ten.”

He’s a little bully. A big little bully baby. “I’ll tariff you! I’ll make you kiss my anatomy!”

He runs his gang of baby bullies and doesn’t know they’re plotting to replace him. He thinks he’s forever.

He doesn’t have to learn anything because he already knows everything, and nobody can say different because he got rid of facts and truth and history and school and and.

He’s Emperor King. He’s god. He’s even better than god because all he has to do is say it and it’s created on day one and he doesn’t need seven days.

He doesn’t care about anything or anybody else, not the world he’s destroying and ending because he won’t be here to see it.

He lies on his back and waves his little arms and legs and puffs himself up and then implodes.

Soon he will be gone.

He thinks we will remember him.

About that, he may be right.