Swamp Rabbit was reading from a newspaper column by a guy who dissed the Trump administration for hesitating to ground all of Boeing’s 737 Max airliners, even though two airplanes of this type have crashed and burned in the past five months, killing all aboard:
The swamp has overflowed, with lobbyists employed by Trump quintupling over two years. Boeing, American Airlines and 31 other corporate entities landed at least five former lobbyists apiece. Public Citizen reported that, five months into the administration, nearly 70 percent of top nominees had corporate ties.
“What swamp is this guy talking about?” the rabbit said. “You live in a swamp, Odd Man, and me too. We got egrets and snakes and frogs and raccoons and water rats, even a dead biker once in a while. But there ain’t no lobbyists in the swamp. The critters wouldn’t stand for it. Neither would the pond scum.”
I told the rabbit that “the swamp,” when the media use the term, refers to Washington, D.C., and specifically to the pervasive climate of corruption in the capital — to the bribery and influence-peddling and other unseemly practices that go on there 24/7.
“The newspaper guy is making a joke about Trump,” I explained, taking a seat on the porch of my shack. “Around when he first took office, Trump said he was going to drain the swamp.”
The rabbit looked horrified. “Why would anybody want to drain the swamp?” he said. “That would kill all the critters and the plants, and bring floods and droughts and them tacky townhouses.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s a metaphor, rabbit. Most people think swamps are murky, rotten places.”
The rabbit spit off the porch and into my recently thawed-out pond. “That ain’t fair. This here swamp is funky, but it ain’t rotten.”
“It’s just an expression,” I said, losing my patience. “Just a word.”
“Words are important,” he replied. “Washington is a cesspool, not a swamp.”
I shrugged. “Call it what you want. Just don’t expect anyone to drain it, even after Trump goes to jail.”