Most of us have one, although his name may or may not be Mickey. But you've seen the guy. He drinks too much beer at the Thanksgiving dinner, or he holds forth, glass in hand, at some niece's or nephew's wedding reception, pontificating about blacks or Jews or Mexicans or Eyetalians, whoever happens to be the minority group du jour, who look nothing like Uncle Mickey. When he starts carrying on about sending them back to where they came from you roll your eyes, and in your finer moments you tell him to be quiet.
You know, and everybody else knows, that Uncle Mickey is an idiot, an embarrassment, someone who cannot and should not be taken seriously. If you weren't related to him you'd build up a fair amount of animosity toward him. But because you are related to him, you lead him off to bed, pat him on the head, and tell him to go to sleep.
Uncle Mickey is now the President of the United States.
It's an incredibly depressing time in America.
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