The land is glad for a drink. Soft rain falls. Soft rain is delightful. Refreshing and cleansing is the rain that falls upon the ground. A beckoning call for peace and understanding. Our coarse society is fond of the cudgel. Politics has degenerated into a blood sport. How can we embarrass and demoralize the opponent? A wrestling venue on the lawn of the White House is in line with our values of success as vanguishment and body slams.

Contrary to a popular slogan, the Press is not fake news. Freedom of the press is protected in the Constitution of the United States. The key to success is for politicians to support logical, systematic policies that they understand and are not afraid to defend to the press. Policies that are not based in reality, the product of magical thinking, are problematic when it comes to answering questions regarding them. Reversals and lies are hard to defend to the press. Going to war for a narcissistic reason is hard to validate.

Becoming angry and stalking off is not a good answer to hard questions that you do not want to answer. That is a smoke cloud of distraction. Magicians have understood this trick for a long time. The interesting thing regarding freedom of the press is that it extends to all. Some decry the fake news until they want their turn at rhetoric not based in reality.

We search for a club and cleavers when we need pruning shears and gardeners’ gloves. The soft rain nurtures. The birds are singing. Crickets are chirping. Truth is truth, even if it does not have high ratings. Lies are lies, even when they are loved and embraced by millions of excited followers and adherents. We all benefit from the soft rain. We contemplate peace as the sky opens for all of us. Nature does not recognize political parties.

So the press has its finger in the dyke, attempting to prevent the dyke from bursting and a flood coming. Countries that do not have a free press do not have those who support the autocratic leader as citizens of abundance. On the contrary, once the dictator has firm control, all eat the same gruel dished out by the State. When there is no longer a place to hear the truth, darkness covers the land. The truth is turned on its head. Black is white up in down, and two plus two is five. The emperor is naked. Sycophants tell him with great passion that his attire is made by the gods. ‘You are altogether lovely, your every word is captured for posterity, and gold statues are erected to your brilliance,’ the Emporers Throng attest. ‘Sleep if you like slumber on, we will tell you what you need to know,’ the Emperor’s Throng continues. ‘Your hair is beautiful, you are in perfect shape, we have brought perfumeed ointment for your feet, the ET said. ‘Those who do not agree with you are stupid or crooked or both. Here is a golden mirror that we will now fasten to your collar so that you may behold the golden brilliance that you bless us with each day,’ the ET shouted with tears in their eyes and snot running down their cheeks. ‘We should partake of his body and blood as we do in communion,’ the ET offered with a frenzy! ‘If we imbibe his essence, we shall be like he is,’ the ET cried!

‘Ow, you bit me, the Emperor cried!