Ignoring common wisdom, the greater consciousness that is humanity now appears to have eaten mussels in a month not ending in the letter “R”. Experts believe this likely happened sometime in the first half of 2016, and we appear to now be locked in a years’-long fever dream that will likely end in a very slowly moving car being driven with one hand by Donald Trump in a Barney suit – the head of which is resting on the dashboard – down an eerily quiet residential street, while being chased by rideable, hydraulically-powered golf ball washers being driven by angry panda bears, the stress of which is causing him to wipe his brow with a tutu-wearing hairless rat.
“It’s pretty obvious at this stage,” says Gustav Jung, great-grandson of Carl Jung, the famous psychoanalyst best known for first recognizing that there had to be something driving our truly wack species that had nothing to do with God, and only a little to do with sex.
“Our current reality has all the hallmarks of a fever dream,” continues Gustav while making notes with a neutral expression, his legs neatly crossed in the way that only Swiss therapists can. “Right down to the fact it is getting hotter than hell, most of us have broken out in a sweat, and events that formerly would have been viewed as absurd are now common place.” Here he breaks off to read the top five headlines on a randomly selected website. His point made he pushes his round spectacles back on his broad forehead, and crinkles his face into a somewhat maniacal grin.
“The good news is, in a little while we are going to wake up. We will turn on the television. Obama will be speaking. It will be reassuringly boring. We will turn it off. We will go outside. Our neighbour will no longer look like someone punched him in the scrotal region. We will exchange random pleasantries about how nice it is that the UK has an open and free relationship with the greater EU, and how hopeful it makes us to see Germany pledging to take 800,000 refugees. We will share a hearty laugh at Trump’s latest gaffs, and be sure that there is no way on this green earth that this orange man will ever sit in the White house. Then we’ll agree to meet back later for a Pepsi later without having to retract that plan, and admit it missed the mark. All will be right again.”
The natural follow up question to all of this (what if this isn’t a dream?), seems to take the famously-descended analyst by surprise. He raises his eyebrows, and then gazes out the large window of his ultra-modern office, high above the spotless streets of Zurich. Then, without warning,he suddenly rattles out a phrase in German, the guttural noises falling out of his mouth like perfectly cut wooden blocks, tumbling across the wide, uncluttered desk between us.
“That is a German phrase,” he redundantly explains. “It doesn’t have a direct English translation, but loosely it means: If we didn’t all eat bad mussels, and this is indeed reality, then we my friends, are in some very deep shit.”
Painting: Agim Meta