Election 2016 and Animal Farm

With both the Republican and Democratic parties finally having a clear path forward to the nomination of candidates for president, I have this to offer:

Defeated Bernie Bros sound so much like Donald Drumpf supporters I have a hard time telling who is who. They’re all anti-trade agreement. They all hate the media (though their names for the media are different; the Bros deride the “corporatist” media while the Drumpfs deride the “librul media”).

And both parties are going to have to grapple with the fact that they’re nominated individuals with the highest disapproval ratings of any candidates ever offered by any party.*

I will go on the record as saying I prefer neither candidate the parties are offering. Nor am I likely to vote Libertarian, as Libertarians generally, while nice people, are completely insane.

Anyway, I’ve been struggling for a way to describe how I feel about this election, until it hit me this morning: I don’t have to. George Orwell has already done so. See: 

"Gentlemen," concluded Napoleon, "I will give you the same toast as before, but in a different form. Fill your glasses to the brim. Gentlemen, here is my toast: To the prosperity of The Manor Farm! "

There was the same hearty cheering as before, and the mugs were emptied to the dregs. But as the animals outside gazed at the scene, it seemed to them that some strange thing was happening. What was it that had altered in the faces of the pigs? Clover's old dim eyes flitted from one face to another. Some of them had five chins, some had four, some had three. But what was it that seemed to be melting and changing? Then, the applause having come to an end, the company took up their cards and continued the game that had been interrupted, and the animals crept silently away. 

But they had not gone twenty yards when they stopped short. An uproar of voices was coming from the farmhouse. They rushed back and looked through the window again. Yes, a violent quarrel was in progress. There were shoutings, bangings on the table, sharp suspicious glances, furious denials. The source of the trouble appeared to be that Napoleon and Mr. Pilkington had each played an ace of spades simultaneously.

Twelve voices were shouting in anger, and they were all alike. No question, now, what had happened to the faces of the pigs. The creatures outside looked from pig to man, and from man to pig, and from pig to man again; but already it was impossible to say which was which.

And before anyone of any political stripe claims you saw the “All Animals Are Equal but Some Are More Equal Than Others” and believe you’re fighting the good fight, I say: HOGWASH.

Trump thought the system was rigged until he won. And Bernie Bros would not be complaining bitterly at all had their boy “clinched” anything this week rather than Hillary Clinton.

Do not tell me otherwise because I will never believe you. Remember, the “revolution” depicted in some versions of Orwell’s story DOES NOT HAPPEN in Orwell’s novel. The democratic socialists become indistinguishable from the totalitarians they replace (and this goes for any revolutionist to ruler journey you can offer).

*Or so the conventional wisdom goes, as it’s hard to pin these numbers down.