Dermatitis, being an American, and The Man Who Would Be King...

Let’s get something straight, right off the bat.

I never have been, nor will I ever be, technically, an American…by birth, marriage, or residency.

It’s not that I don’t want to be. Far from it.

And it’s not that I wasn’t born in the right place…to the right parents. Again, far from it.

The reason is simple.

Even though I love so much of our distant territory…and even though I love so many of the people who live there…I can’t bring myself to like what’s happening on the other side of the pond. No matter how hard I try, I can’t accept an election result I believe might be suspect.

I don’t have any proof. And I suspect those who don’t agree with me don’t have any proof either. Except for the fact that, technically, one person got more votes than the other person.

And any other result would just be pretty close to sour grapes on the part of the person who went home to an address that wasn’t 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

But I do have one hell of an itch…and it needs scratching. So much so that my skin on my arms is well and truly trashed.

It has nothing to do with my touch of dermatitis, and everything to do with me waking up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat and believing that, somehow, Trump and Co. had stolen the US Election, and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Of course, it was just a nightmare. And of course, it had nothing to do with Sean Connery, Michael Caine, and the movie The Man Who Would Be King.

And it certainly had nothing to do with one man’s warped desire to rule everyone else. To make everyone else subservient to his wishes. To make them all victims of his own insane lust for power.

Eventually, The Man Who Would Be King would be found out and he would come to a very sticky end.

Even his own people would turn on him. Which is precisely what should happen to all tyrants.

Political or otherwise…