Springtime for the Cheeto Messiah

"Der Führer does not say, "Achtung, baby.'"

I figured this would be a quiet Monday, being Presidents Day and all.

"Presidents Day"? How completely ridiculous. We used to honor Washington and Lincoln, two shining models of how to occupy that office. Now we seem also to be honoring Warren G. Harding, or maybe James Polk. Or maybe the senile jester holding the title as I write this.

I had a thought this weekend that maybe, someday, perhaps even in my lifetime, we'll see a modern day version of the Producers appear in theaters (assuming those still exist).

Remember the premise of that wonderful Mel Brooks movie? He and Gene Wilder hit upon a fantastic path to riches by producing what they hope will be the worst, most utterly tasteless musical ever. They giddily encounter the script for a piece called Springtime for Hitler, written by a sad ex-Nazi named Franz Liebkind ("Love Child" in English). Franz lives in a dingy walk-up that appears to be somewhere in this neighborhood, pre-gentrification. He raises pigeons on the roof. and he has a deep, abiding love for his Fuehrer. When our protagonists approach him about producing his play, he starts waxing rhapsodic about Hitler.

"Not many people know it, but the Fuhrer was a terrific dancer", he reveals.

Gene Wilder seals the deal by assuring Franz that they want to tell the story of the "Hitler with a song in his heart". They leave wearing Nazi armbands, which they promptly throw in the trash.

What makes the whole scenario so hilarious is, obviously, that they're producing a musical about perhaps the worst human being ever to hold high office, the man who brought us the Blitz and the Holocaust. And it's barely two decades after he gave his farewell speech in the Bunker. And Franz with his helmet and ribbon and sad old trappings of the glorious Third Reich seems so utterly ridiculous, living in an alternative backward-looking reality that remembers Hitler as a dancer and an all-around fun guy.

So, where am I going with all this?

Maybe in around 2048, when I'm 84 (!), some wag will write a script about someone wanting to produce a Broadway musical about Trump and MAGA, a play where the protagonists track down some red-hat wearing trailer park denizen who remembers this as a golden era tragically cut short by term limits and a penitential march back to sanity. Who could possibly remember the people running the executive branch right now as anything but awful? Our grandchildren and great-grandchildren might flock to the theater to spend two hours mocking the most repulsive group of folks this country has produced since before Fort Sumter, Noem and Hegseth and, of course, their deranged boss. We'll all howl with laughter at the utter insanity of the whole thing.

In an ironic twist, perhaps the AI robot that actually writes, acts in, and markets the movie will schedule it to open on Presidents Day.

When we can laugh at the awfulness, we'll know we finally won. For the time being, anyway.

Back to trial prep. The day is slipping away, the phone is ringing off the hook notwithstanding the federal holiday, and I have miles to go preparing witness outlines, arranging exhibits, and doing a bunch of other things that have unfortunately displaced studying or spending time with P.