It came as a surprise to me to learn that Mickey Mouse is eighty today. He is forever young, although he was even around a few years before I was born. Truth is he was never one of my favorites. As a child I found him cheerful, amiable, loveable, and annoying as all hell. Although I loved Mickey and read all of his adventures in those newspaper comic sections and Big Little Books of my youth I could never identify with him. He was too gentle, too good natured, too much the All American Mouse, the Tom Sawyer of mice, while I allied myself with the Huck Finn Duck. Indeed, it was when I discovered Donald Duck that the Disney charm began to work on me. I knew at once that I was a born Donald, irritable, vengeful, more given to quacking in frustration than squeaking in joy, capable of loving (remember that delightful Daisy?) seeking a world of justice in a world of chaos, but happiest when getting a bit of my own back. And it is the Donald in me (not his namesake impostor Trump) that leaves me a bit unsatisfied after this historic and thrilling election.
It is clear to me that my man Obama in his infinite Mickey wisdom will not exact revenge against his enemies. No eye for an eye for Barry O. Not for him my favorite quote "revenge is a dish best served cold." In fact he will invite all those slandering, lying, dishonorable enemies to his inaugural birthday party and some of them into his government. He is far too smart to do that vengeance bit, unlike me, the quacking Donald who wants to see Lying Joe Lieberman drawn and quartered and processed by Armor Meats; returned to Connecticut as the first kosher ham; John McCain chained to a tape recorder where he will forever be obliged to listen to his own calumnies and libels while exiled in Arizona with no one but Cindy for company; Sarah Palin harnessed to her Dude husband's snowmobile beside a team of huskies and forced to cover two hundred miles of Alaskan ice and snow in her illicit Manola Blanhik shoes (gotcha?), and while I'm at it I want all those Hedge Fund Hannibal Lecters and mortgage bankers who devoured our once thriving economy to be forced to dine forever in the slammer on their own big toes. None of this will come to pass under the Mickey Obama Presidency. Alas. Donald -- the spirit of retribution -- never wins. If he did would Henry Kissinger still be walking around free, smugly offering advice to the powerful rather than fearfully standing trial in some world court while wetting his bespoke tailored pants?
The comic books of my time with Terry and the Pirates, Smiling Jack and Nancy and Sluggo provide an excellent guide to life. I see Paulson and my infantile, feverish brain goes immediately to Big Stoop, the lumbering presence in Terry who stumbles about much as Paulson does, wildly and stupidly throwing money at problems and missing them. I see Condi Rice as the fork tongued Dragon Lady and W as the waddling Penguin, and where the Donald in me sees prison for those evil birds, our Mickey sees a smile and a pardon. Forget Rove and Cheney! Mickey chooses to regard them as rascals rather than as reactionary revolutionaries who tried to destroy our Constitution and nearly did so. Damn it, we Donalds never win. But I still want to wish Mickey a Happy Birthday. And I hope he accepts my gift of some well packaged retribution. Barack, try it. It's so tasty, eaten hot or cold. But I suspect you won't. You are far smarter than I am, tied as I am to my old fashioned Old Testament emotions. And while I'm being biblical, bless your Presidency, but once in a while let the Donald in you come out and play.