Letter to the Editor: Twlight Zone


Dear Editor
I’m old enough to remember that iconic 1950s sci-fi drama, the original Twilight Zone.
You’d see the creator, writer and host, Rod Serling slowly walking into view, the picture a stark black and white, as he trailed a stream of cigarette smoke, moving portentously into closeup and intoning sonorously:
“Picture if you would, an overweight, elderly, balding, orange dyed, jowly, misogynistic, racist, narcissist in prison stripes and incongruously, a dainty pink tutu and ballet slippers, pathetically struggling to manipulate his tiny feet to go “en pointe”.
And on either side of this laughable figure are a Rockette like line of milling, equally comical figures, straining to mimic their “Dear Leader”, similarly arrayed in their black and white prison garb and pink tutus, most of them in their past lives nationally respected attorneys, politicians and leaders: Paul Manafort, Steve Bannon, Peter Navarro, Michael Cohen, Roger Stone, Allen Weisselberg, Rick Gates, George Papadopoulos, Sidney Powell, Kenneth Chesbro, Jenna Ellis, Scott Hall…. and discomfortingly struggling to fit into their own little “outfits”: Mark Meadows, Rudy Giuliani, Michael Roman and so many more in the wings, their eyes glazed over as perspiration and/or bad hair dye leaks down their faces and they clutch their little MAGA flags.
And we see Serling continuing, his eyes squinting as a veil of cigarette smoke curls round him. “What can only be called a desperate lust for power drove these men and women to give away their very souls. And now, for all time they will frantically prance and dance in ludicrous high kicking lock step through a miserable eternity with their pitiful “master”.

What shall we call them? What perchance will history call them?” And here imagine Serling pausing portentously, his cigarette between his thumb and forefinger and cocking his eyebrow.
“Perhaps an apt, though ironic and frankly too innocent term might be “the Trumpettes.”
Some might say a reason for not selling your soul to a pitiful, self-hating, would-be dictator. And now they are trapped forever in their own…. (and the music crescendos) … Twilight Zone.”
And then imagine the nattily dressed host turning to exit into the black shadows as the sweat streaked, hollow eyed, aging figures continue their macabre puppet dance and the trademark staccato Twilight Zone theme music resounds and the credits roll. Imagine.
Jim Martin