The cynic is telling you to give up. America is dead. Our rotting corpse has been used to further the plot. We, as a country, are literally living "Weekend at Bernie's." The cancer that killed us was diagnosed in November, 1955, the start of the Vietnam war. We died shortly afterwards. The corpse of our country has been moved around by various actors for seventy years, but today its limbs are falling off and the stink of it has finally become so noisome that everybody else—people who didn't know America was already dead—have begun to look at us, really look. "What is their problem? Why have they done so little. Why, with all that power, money, influence, and military might, have they done nothing?" ISIS is taking over a continent and rotting Bernie (Obama) simply looks on, with an idiotic grin plastered on his face.
Enter Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump. AKA Week-end at Bernie's 2. This plot is so contrived and infantile that as we eat our popcorn and sip our sodas we watch as those around us—people who foolishly paid for a ticket—become so disgusted that they finally walk out, get in their cars and drive away. Sometimes, like with Chariots of Fire and Fantasia, the plot is so thin that even Oliver Twist wouldn't ask for another bowl.