Per NYT:

President Trump said he wanted the U.S. opened up and “raring to go by Easter” on April 12, defying the warnings of most health experts.
Tuesday, March 24, 2020 2:17 PM EST
He expressed outrage about having to “close the country” to curb the spread of the coronavirus and indicated his guidelines on business shutdowns and social distancing would soon be lifted.

“I gave it two weeks,” he said in a town hall hosted by Fox News, adding, “We can socially distance ourselves and go to work.”

[Could this-Scale of Idiocy ..even penetrate the unTeachables ???]
I no words.

Scenario: (one of n-)
Setting:

You have gone to D.C. (..some cockamamie reason as seemed OK at the time. To a mathematician).
Necessarily you're clad in one of the hastily-contrived Star-warz knock-off space-suits with-filters etc.
Natch you want to peep The White [-Death] House (mayhap for the refrain which the monkey-brain has set to a tune?) and familiar to
all levels of er, Math: the locus of *points ..with doggerel sorta~like? L-of-P awk Awk!
* well, the locus of pointy-heads creating the many months of heaped-dead-bodies.. thence daily cooings of, "It-It-It's almost.. Over, Folks!"
(Looney Tunes & Melodies playing background, on that now familiar/dreaded daily signature-TV-spot).



(You focus on the hyperbola natch: your entire adventure being fucking-hyperbolic, right?)



Usually the place is the-very-model-of impregnable bastille (with bastards) but this be Body Collection Day. The big truck slowly drives through the razor-wired gate (and you have grabbed the hand-hold at rear, your Mama having no stupid cheeldruns) and your attire suits the Suits-assembled scene inside the new walls--meant to keep the Inmates-In, not-so-much the other way, anymore. (Lynch-mobs had been expected), but it seems that too-many dropped out at appointed time: there was something neat-o on Tee Vee, Ex: The 'Nicks -vs- The Crips, a switchblade spectacular for the kiddies--ever since Sesame Street was banned as being Traitorously-Democrat-sounding.

Inside: as you wander about with shivers, you encounter an oval-door? [should be..] well, portal-orifice to That Room which-may-not be named/Security is All. And.. There! He IS, nostrils (with a few flakes attached=='normal'; cf. the aforementioned Mr. Edroso's send-ups). You ID-self as a Messenger from The Capo of All Capos who was sent just to shake HIS hand. Yours being gloved, his-Not: the *правда сыворотки has been administered-by-handshake (and glove). You thanked him for his wise suggestion about (er, church-roster-decimation) but more simply, given his familiarity only with two-syllable words and the oxymoron-destroyed Incredible!.

.. ... as your recorder captures every slurred syl-lab'-le ... you Give-self that greeting, oft to one's pet.. What a Good Boy! am I.

[All now know the postlude, the past being prelude within the jelloware of millions]
...the parade, the Nobel's (newly-minted) It's-About-Fucking-Time! Medal--embossed, all in 26-karat Aurum (it's better-than the common 100%, natch).


{Sorry ..hadn't had AM coffee yet} ..but we Can grab the dream-stuff from not-very-awake, eh?
* Truth Serum