Could it be worse? I suppose it could be worse but I don't know how it could be, I don't have the imagination, I don't have the requisite dystopian chops of a writer like Atwood, I'm far more Trollopeian.
Literature lately has become more and more of a coping mechanism, but even Whitman doesn't seem to help all that much:
'I heard that you ask'd for something to prove this puzzle the New World, And to define America, her athletic Democracy...'
Wife of Supreme Court Justice Gorsuch packs his lunch, gives him a peck on the cheek, and sends him off to Court. "Have a great day on the bench honey," she says, "make sure to tear down that wall between church and state, stand tall for bigots, Bible thumpers, and the extraction industry. Meatloaf for dinner. See you at 6."
Gorsuch’s had his early morning jog around the suburb. He's full of righteous endorphins, old Eagle Scout pledges, and the strict constitutionalism of his predecessor.
Nominated to the highest court in the land by none other than Donald Trump, his nomination approved in a hijacked Senate, 54-45, Gorsuch now wears the black robe of a Supreme Court Justice: Gorsuch is fitted to a t.