The Washington/Hollywood Participation Trophy Two-Step


The phrase “participation trophy President” has occasionally crossed the interwebs. Regardless of who has been in office, the term is hardly one of endearment. Rather, it indicates the current resident of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue receives and/or demands lavish praise for so little as getting up in the morning, let alone doing their job. It has repeatedly been preferable for the current Oval Office occupant to not do anything in lieu of his active destruction of America both domestically and internationally, something of which anyone who’s filled their car’s gas tank to go grocery shopping is painfully aware.


Amazingly, there are those fiercely committed to a vision of Joe Biden being perhaps at worst one step below the lightworker that was Barack Obama. One such believer in Biden’s messianic properties is Hollywood denizen Ken Olin, who recently gushed:

Given Olin’s extensive resume both in front of and behind the camera, one wonders if perhaps he has been exposed to too much unsuspected radiation from Klieg lights, thus rendering his reality recognition skills suspect. However, we’ll roll with the assumption Olin believes his own words.

One of Hollywood’s significant flaws is its addiction to being an oversized participation trophy palace. Sure, there are self-congratulatory awards shows scattered hither and yon allegedly designed to highlight the best of the best. But for most, simple participation is sufficient to declare one’s status as part of the grand, glorious entertainment industry.

In said industry, self-revelations embracing this week’s most fashionable sexual identity are de rigueur. Any scandal (save uttering a racial epithet) is washed from collective memory via a tear-stained confession and, if the issue is of a chemical nature, a relaxing month at the local drug treatment spa. As long as financial gain can walk sufficiently hand in hand with ideological fealty to literally float the stars and star makers’ boats, it’s all good in the richly embroidered hood.


Where things fall apart is when fantasyland’s forever-dwellers fall victim to the deadly trap of believing people proclaiming how great thou art when, in fact, thou aren’t. The lust, the flesh, the eyes, and the pride of life make for an intoxicating self-aggrandizing cocktail, but being enabled to indulge in same does not impart wisdom. Real life is notably bereft of screenwriters, and when one is accustomed to handlers and enablers doing their thing so you don’t have to do anything, speaking on your own becomes a verbal minefield.

Doubtless, Olin believes what he wrote. Why shouldn’t he? It is reasonable to assume he’s not scrambling for rent money. Or gas money, grocery money, and so on. When you live in a world where making make-believe seem sufficiently real so that the audience is temporarily willing to set reality aside in favor of pretending the scene played out before them is worth their emotional and intellectual investment, believing the hype becomes very, very easy.

Even a cursory glance at this site details how the Biden Administration is a still-rolling train wreck utterly unaware it has crashed. The results of its feckless ineptitude are felt by every American struggling to make ends meet. Still, Washington and Hollywood carry on with their participation trophy two-step, utterly unaware that in the real world they are finishing dead last even as they play court attendants admiring the emperor’s new clothes.



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