El Presidente’s New Clothes A Party-Approved Parable

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I have been granted the great honor to share with you the storyline for the new PBS Child Enlightenment program which will premiere the weekend after next Tuesday at a PBS-Sponsored “Enlightenment Camp” to help the unfortunate offspring of Trump supporters
I cannot take full credit for this timely draft. It was co-written with the aid of Kamalarad Michael Beller, esq. who involuntarily resigned from PBS recently to assume a position with a soon to be announced interagency task force comprised of members from the DoJ, the Department of Education, Health and Human Services, Homeland Security, ANTIFA and the BATF-E. I want to thank other members on the Party-Approved Kommittee -- which included some very influential Inner Party Members from certain Tech” firms headquartered in Palo Alto and Media giants from New York and Atlanta -- whose contributions and resounding support made this all possible.

[EDITORS' NOTE: Portions of this narrative were redistributed (in accordance with Social Justice Demands) from greedy, White Privileged authors such as Hans Christian Anderson (whose name JUST DRIPS with Nazi Right-Wing, White Christian nationalism) and some other Cis-Gendered White Supremacist named Mattimore Cronin (who incidentally missed the ENTIRE point of the narrative and will soon be “kinetically enlightened” if he dares sue for such outmoded concepts as “Plagiarism.”) You may review his drivel at the link below…if you do not mind the NSA tracking your presence for later use against you in a Kourt of Law. ( Presidente-has-no-clothes-ace63fef6eb8).]




Many years ago, there was an El Presidente so exceedingly fond of new clothes that she spent all her money on being well dressed. she cared nothing about reviewing her soldiers, going to the theatre, going for a ride in her hybrid-powered carriage, or posing for a Vogue magazine cover except to show off her new clothes. She had a coat for every hour of the day, and instead of saying, as one might, about any other ruler, “The Supreme Executive's (elected in a totally legitimate election according to a Panel of Independent Fact Checkers, BTW) in council,” here they always said. “El Presidente's in her dressing room.”

In the great city where she lived, life was always gay. Every day many strangers came to town, and among them one day came two community organizers (both from an Asian nation not to be listed here). They let it be known they were weavers, and they said they could weave the most magnificent fabrics imaginable. Not only were their colors and patterns uncommonly fine, but clothes made of this cloth had a wonderful way of becoming invisible to anyone who was unfit for his/her/it/xi/xis office, anyone who is too stupid to live, or an enemy of the state.

“Those would be just the clothes for me,” thought El Presidente. “If I wore these cloths, I would be able to discover which men in my empire are unfit for their posts. And I could tell the patriotic and wise men from the traitors and fools. Yes, I certainly must get some of the stuff woven for me right away.” she issued a government contract paying the two community organizers a large sum of money from the treasury to start work at once.

They set up two looms in the West Wing and pretended to weave, though there was nothing on the looms. All the cash, finest silk, and the purest old thread which they demanded went into their traveling bags, while they worked the empty looms far into the night.

“I'd like to know how those weavers are getting on with the cloth,” El Presidente thought, but she felt slightly uncomfortable when she remembered that those who were unfit for their position would not be able to see the fabric. It couldn't have been that she doubted himself, yet she thought she'd rather send someone else to see how things were going. The whole town knew about the cloth's peculiar power, and all were impatient to find out how disloyal and stupid their neighbors were.

“I'll send my honest old minister to the weavers,” El Presidente decided. “He'll be the best one to tell me how the material looks, for he's a sensible man and no one does his duty better.”

So, the honest old minister went to the room where the two community organizers sat working away at their empty looms.

“Gaia help me,” he thought as his eyes flew wide open, “I can't see anything at all”. But he did not say so.

Both the community organizers begged him to be so kind as to come near to approve the excellent pattern, the beautiful colors. They pointed to the empty looms, and the poor old minister stared as hard as he dared. He couldn't see anything, because there was nothing to see. “Oh, Gaia have mercy,” he thought. “Can it be that I'm a fool? I'd have never guessed it, and not a soul must know. Am I unfit to be the minister? It would lose my Government Paycheck and Retirement Plan if I let on that I can't see the cloth.”

“Don't hesitate to tell us what you think of it,” said one of the weavers.
“Oh, it's beautiful -it's enchanting.” The old minister peered through his spectacles. “Such a pattern, what colors!” I'll be sure to tell El Presidente how delighted I am with it.”

“We're pleased to hear that,” the community organizers said. They proceeded to name all the colors and to explain the intricate pattern. The old minister paid the closest attention, so that he could tell it all to El Presidente. And, so he did.

The community organizers at once asked for more money, more silk and gold thread, to get on with the weaving. But it all went into their pockets. Not a thread went into the looms, though they worked at their weaving as hard as ever.

El Presidente presently sent a trustworthy journalist to see how the work progressed and how soon it would be ready. The same thing happened to him that had happened to the minister. He looked and he looked, but as there was nothing to see in the looms -- he couldn't see anything.

“Isn't it a beautiful piece of goods?” the community organizers asked the journalist, as they displayed and described their imaginary pattern.

“I know I'm not stupid,” the man thought, “so it must be that I'm unworthy of my good office. That's strange. I mustn't let anyone find it out, though. I could lose that Prime Time Anchor's Chair” So he praised the material he did not see. He declared he was delighted with the beautiful colors and the exquisite pattern. To El Presidente and to the Public in an issued a Press Release -- he said, “It held me spellbound.”

All the town was talking of this splendid cloth, and El Presidente wanted to see it for herself while it was still in the looms. Attended by a band of chosen persons (all reflecting a fair cross section of the general population but ideologically pure and of one mind) she set out to see the two community organizers. Also with the entourage were the old trusted official and the journalist -- the ones who had been to the weavers before. She and her retinue found them weaving with might and main, but without a thread in sight of their looms.

“Magnificent,” said the two officials already duped convinced of the weavers' ‘truth.' “Just look, Your Majesty, what colors! What a design!” They pointed to the empty looms, each supposing that the others could see the stuff.“What's this?” thought El Presidente. “I can't see anything. This is terrible! It's almost as bad as the Vogue cover shoot!”
Her mind raced “Am I a fool? Am I unfit to be El Presidente? What a thing to happen to me of all people!”Her eyes darted from the looms to the faces of the others in the room -- all searching for her reaction. She squinted her eyes, flashed a cheesy political grin, and lilted a light giggle. “Oh! It's very pretty,” She beamed. “It has my highest approval.” And she nodded approbation at the empty loom. Nothing could make her say that she couldn't see anything.

Her whole retinue stared and stared. One saw no more than another, but they all joined El Presidente in exclaiming, “Oh! It's very pretty,” and they advised him to wear clothes made of this wonderful cloth especially for the great procession he was soon to lead. “Magnificent! Excellent! Unsurpassed!” were bandied from mouth to mouth, and everyone did his best to seem well pleased. El Presidente gave each of the community organizers a hammer and sickle pin to wear in his lapel, and the title of “Kamalarad Hero Weaver.”

Before the procession the community organizers sat up all night and burned more than six candles, to show how busy they were finishing El Presidente's new clothes. They pretended to take the cloth off the loom. They made cuts in the air with huge scissors. And at last, they said, “Now El Presidente's new clothes are ready for wear.”

Then El Presidente herself came with her noblest Party Members, and the community organizers each raised an arm as if they were holding something. They said, “These are the trousers, here's the coat, and this is the mantle,” naming each garment. “All of them are as light as a spider web. One would almost think she had nothing on, but that's what makes them so fine.”

“Exactly,” all the Party Memebers agreed, though they could see nothing, for there was nothing to see.

“If Your Excellency will condescend to take your clothes off,” said the community organizers, “we will help you on with your new ones here in front of the long mirror.”
El Presidente undressed, and the community organizers pretended to put her new clothes on her, one garment after another. They took her around the waist and seemed to be fastening something — that was her train-as El Presidente turned round and round before the looking glass.

“How well Your Majesty's new clothes look. Aren't they becoming!” She heard commentary on all sides, “That pattern, so perfect! Those colors, so suitable! It is a magnificent outfit. NOW, we can re-shoot that Vogue cover!”

Then the minister of public processions announced: “Your Majesty's canopy is waiting outside.”

“Well, I'm supposed to be ready,” El Presidente said, and turned again for one last look in the mirror. “It is a remarkable fit, isn't it?” She seemed to regard her costume with the greatest interest.

The noblemen who were to carry her train stooped low and reached for the floor as if they were picking up her mantle. Then they pretended to lift and hold it high. They didn't dare admit they had nothing to hold.

So off went El Presidente in procession under her splendid canopy. Everyone in the streets and the windows said, “Oh, how fine are El Presidente's new clothes! Don't they fit her to perfection? And see her long train!” Nobody would confess that he/she/xi/xis couldn't see anything, for that would prove him/her/xim/xir either unfit for his/her/xiz/xir position, a fool, or worse…. No costume El Presidente had worn before was ever such a complete success.
This precession continued a long way through the streets and down the mall. Crowds thronged to “Ooo” and “Aaah” -- cheering for their Supreme Executive (chosen through a totally free and fair election according to independent fact checkers).

Then a chubby young lad in the crowd with a complexion resembling the hue of a Cheetoes Puff said: “But she hasn't got anything on!”

A bystander overheard the child. “How could you be so rude!?”

His Father, Mitch, patted him on the poufy blond haired atop his head: “Keep it down now. Be courteous and don't twitter on so.”

The boy stomped a foot down, waved his hands about and raised his voice even louder for other bystanders around the block to hear: “Look! She's TOTALLY Naked, People! Totally! This is such a scam! Such a HOAX! And…She's YUGE! She really needs to lose some weight… Look at all that flab.”

The father demurred as he tried to pinch the little boy's ear to keep him quiet: “Did you ever hear such innocent prattle?” The crowd stared at the child and the father with great opprobrium or utter shock. A murmuring surged through the crowd. And one person whispered to another what the child had said, “She hasn't anything on. A child says she hasn't anything on.”

The Child continued the repeat the message. “Look, People… It is TOTALLY obvious… The lady is completely naked…and she spent your tax dollars to do it. YUGE Waste, I tell ya.”

El Presidente shivered, for she suspected the little brat might undo everything. But then she spread wide a mischievous grin, pointed a malicious finger in his direction, and proclaimed “This child is a THREAT to our Democracy! He must be silenced! This procession has got to go on so that we can do the People's business.” She gave a nod to her minister and the journalist and continued to walked more proudly than ever, as her noblemen held high the train that wasn't there at all.

The journalist grabbed a bullhorn and began to whip the crowd into a frenzy. “LOOK at this INSURRECTION! El Presidente is the Victim of a Violent Assault by this PAID Russian Agent!

And just as a handful of others nearby were convinced of his child-like logic and stood ready to defend him, members of the crowd began to rant angrily.

“FAKE NEWS!!! We've Fact Checked your spurious claims.”

“This Kid is off his Meds!”

“What are you? Some kook conspiracy theorist!? Take off the Tin-foil Hat, you little bastard?”

“Shut the hell up, you little Russian Troll! Have you been hanging out on QAnon?”

“You've been watching too much Foxnews!”

The angry rants issued to the Father, as well. “Is this your stupid kid?”

“I'm calling Child Protective Services. You have been ABUSING this child!”

“You should have your balls cut off!!”

The Father began to back-peddle. “I, I, I swear I've never seen this little Traitor before in my life! I just told him to keep quiet.”

As the crowd raged and ragged on, a troupe of black and red-clad youngsters in ski masks and backpacks charged into the scene. As the front line pushed up against the young lad, who would not give an inch, someone at the launched a stinging stream of bear repellent in the child's face.

Bystanders who a moment ago seemed ready to stand with the lad, now grabbed him and snatched him up high like a trophy. “HERE HE IS… We're on your side, STRING UP THE TRAITOR!!!

The Child continued to protest: “Doesn't our Land have a Constitution? Do I not have a right to speak FREELY…to tell the Truth?”

The crowd began to wail on him with fists and clubs: “Your truth isn't our truth, you fat little Nazi Cheeto! Your words are VIOLENCE!!! You're engaged in Armed Insurrection! Sedition!”

The boy's broken and bloody form was dragged into the town square. He tried to speak once more through laboured breathing: “Look…. Just-- You're acting like fascists! Please--”


The proprietors in the Marketplace quickly brought forth duct tape, shoved a sock in his mouth and wrapped his jaws tightly so NO ONE could hear him speak.

A few tried to intervene and ask for a fair hearing of the facts. The received a right proper beating and a healthy dose of Bear Spray until they were chased from the square. One was shot in the head (although private gun ownership had long been made illegal). Some on hand recorded their names on a black list for later Social Justice.

The crowd now whipped up into a violent frenzy, began to hoisted the fat little SOB up the flag pole by his neck. His Father and Mother soon followed, although it was difficult to recognize them, now. The throng roared their approval and threw rotten vegetables at the criminals.

El Presidente leaning back under her canopy, folded her arms and smiled with pleased contentment. She remarked over her shoulder to the Weavers “This is my new favorite outfit.”



The Nail that dares to raise its Head shall be hammered down… or removed!

NEVER… EVER challenge the Party-Approved Narrative… if you know what is good for you…[/hide=]