Bad leadership requires a constituency of sheep. For a large chunk of America our new shepherd is idolized as the smartest guy in the room. For the rest of us he has been analyzed, scrutinized and demonized for the past twelve months. The only question remaining is whether he is insane, ignorant, ill-mannered or some, all or none of the above. I’m done with it. He wins. He is indeed the greatest. No one generates more ink, or more ire. He is the master manipulator of media; the greatest since some herdsman 10,000 years ago managed to move thousands of sheep into a narrow gully and have his way with them. He has rustled the electorate and harnessed them.
The thing about sheep is that they are generally docile, incurious. The curious ones get slaughtered early on so as not to pass along their subversive gene. … And everywhere that Mary went the lamb was sure to go.
Our shepherd doesn’t like questions. He is, after all, the one with the staff or shall we say, wand. He waves his wand and they do his bidding like Dudamel leading the philharmonic. Except our beloved conductor doesn’t belong in the same paragraph with Donald. Dudamel listens closely and interprets with the greatest of fidelity. Whereas our man with the wand has perfected the art of the lie. He orchestrates an alternative symphony.
Apparently it doesn’t take a whole lot to herd sheep. There are sixty million of them in New Zealand and only 3.5 million of us two-legged creatures. Our shepherd-in-chief has learned the language of sheep. He hears their Baa, their every bleat. He is fluent in bleat.
He can declare that Thursday is now between Monday and Tuesday and Sunday precedes Saturday. If challenged he will either insult, fire or sue that person or else announce that he never said anything of the sort. If his surrogate can no longer defend the statement an apology will be issued on the bottom of page 37 in next year’s Farmer’s Almanac.
A few sheep might be disgruntled and they would be on tomorrow’s menu as lamb chops. All that wool to be pulled over their eyes when the promised-land doesn’t show up. In time, one hopes, the flock will become dismayed and thin out. Word gets out, even in sheep-dom, when the shepherd leads them over the cliff.
Speculation has it that the first sentence spoken by Homo Sapien, was something like, I smell a lion. Sheep, no doubt, also have a nose for trouble, especially when their guy with the tweeting mouth and mustard hair is revealed as a fake and leads them into the abyss.
Soon a new little girl or boy blue will blow the horn, learn the speak and turn the Baa to an ah or better yet into an aha. Not the way Hillary Bo-Peep did losing her sheep. They won't come home wagging their tails behind them. We need a voice more like Bernie whose flock felt the burn and saw green pastures good for grazing.