It’s time to abandon Donald Trump’s funeral procession 

I suppose that, at least for some people, funerals are a form of entertainment.

I can certainly relate to that. There was actually a time when I, myself, considered becoming a professional funeral-crasher—searching the obituaries for a convenient memorial service, taking every opportunity to follow another hearse, shedding a few crocodile tears on cue and getting an added benefit from my allergic response to the rafts of colorful flowers, sneezing violently throughout the service and clearing my clogged airways on my tear-soaked handkerchief.

After all, funerals are a once-in-a-lifetime-opportunity to visit with the dear departed, and that means a joyous chance to enjoy those cheesy, scalloped potatoes, green Jello and 15 casserole bowls of mismatched lasagna—the yummies that have come to be a standard symbol of remembrance.

Morbid? Not exactly, though that would certainly explain why the endless dirge of Donald Grump’s “Funeral-for-America” procession still has a following. There’s just something about the steady boom of the bass drum, the mile-long procession of cars with their low-beams turned on, throngs of mourners draped in suitable black, duly respectful motorcycle cops lining the roadway and the dour delivery of America’s eulogy that has inspired Donald Grump’s hanger-on cult to savor what could only be described as sweat-lodge-quality ”festive” atmosphere. Thinking about it makes me tingly all over. I don’t know about you, but what could be more exhilarating than a session with a shaman in a hot adobe chamber?

Not really.

Drumming on his endless verbal diarrhea of what’s wrong with our country—and how he, alone, can be America’s heaven-declared savior—has become old and stale, even for some of his most faithfully-deluded supporters. A fair number of solid Republicans have announced support for Harris; and there will be more.

The incessant message of a dying America—that needs Trump’s form of self-serving resuscitation—has simply overstayed its welcome, much like a mediocre Broadway show that’s in its seventeenth year. The seasons of curtain calls, which may have once seemed fresh and exciting, have simply become stale and moldy, losing their appeal. Sure, there are some diehards, people who seem to have nothing else in their lives to encourage happiness and have been successful in allowing a national disgrace to funnel and direct their actions toward another corruption of the Oval Office.

While some may find Donald Grump’s finality of permanent doom and gloom sort of reassuring, most Americans don’t want to spend the rest of their lives in a motorcade to the grave. After his years of somehow revving up the brain-dead, uneducated and mentally unfit unfortunates of our great nation, the party—and the Republican party specifically—may finally be over.

The charm of America’s own flim-flam man has suffered the same kind of attrition that comes from seeing too many “step-right-up, folks” traveling shows. The message of the arthritic aging of the American dream has gotten old, and even some of the GOP’s best supporters have lost their enthusiasm. It’s no surprise that a fair share of Republicans are looking for a new rack on which to hang their hats.

Enter Kamala Harris and Gov. Tim Walz.

It’s almost as if Americans had forgotten what it was like to be excited in a positive way. Suddenly, the funeral dirge has turned to a happy song, faces are wearing smiles again and we’re seeing a focus on not what’s wrong with America, but how we can work together to form an alliance for a successful, progressive future.

Not surprisingly, Donald Grump is eyeing Harris’s highly energized following and considering how he might be wise to try to follow suit. But hard as he tries, he can alight on a short mission of auspicious high ideal and purpose, only to have his brief attempt interrupted by the real Donald. What could be a competitive equalization turns into the same-ol’-same-ol’, merely bringing his constituency back to the realization that, while it looked like it might be a joyous wedding occasion, the funeral procession is still alive and well.

I suspect that during the final months of the Harris and Trump campaigns, Grump will be watching for what seems to work for his opponent. One thing they seem to now agree upon is that tips should be removed from taxable income.

For Harris, that means struggling hotel maids, single mothers and paycheck-to-paycheck restaurant servers—all suffering from the ravishes of soaring prices—will finally get a much-needed break from their desperate servitude. But don’t ever think that Donald Grump would do anything to help rescue or elevate the great unwashed. Kindly keep in mind: He will never enact anything that doesn’t provide him with another personal payday.

You can mark my words. The astronomical $20M to $100M annual “Christmas” bonuses for America’s wealthiest executives will surely be reclassified as “tips.” After all, just like in the saying that there is “honor among thieves,” the financial rapists of America will always be on the same team.

That said, it’s time to ignore the negative, escape Donald Grump’s funeral procession and embrace the hope of a great tomorrow.

The author is a retired businessman, novelist, columnist and former Vietnam-era Army assistant public information officer. He resides in Riverton with his wife, Carol, and their adorable and ferocious dog “Poppy.”