Last week women and men across the US and around the world gathered to demonstrate resistance to antique repressive policies, condescension and wretched treatment and the events happened to overlap with D. Trump’s inauguration. Women, minorities, marginalized groups have made some progress, not great, but good, and President Trump could reverse those advancements; it’s a legitimate concern. He’s everything I’ve ever detested; rich entitled bullying loud country-club fratboys who haven’t worked or read a book since college. He’s what I hate and what I never want to be. And I have been in plenty of locker rooms, poker games and rock bands and we’ve never talked about women the way that he does. The psychobastard can go frig himself with that bullshit.
He was correct, though, when he said that because he’s a celebrity he could get away with stuff the rest of us would be arrested for. That’s an indictment of America’s Shallow Values. He’s such a puke that perhaps his hateful words and actions will precipitate a denunciation of him and his corrupt attitudes towards women, money, and celebrity. The guy is so vile that rejection of his standards could be a new pathway towards a better world and sensible behavior.
I’m a dreamer.
He’s the President and magical thinking, prayer, and Facebook petitions are not going to alter that fact. That’s delusion.
Sure, the New Dark Ages may be upon us. A militarized right wing apocalypse. The end of kindness, peace and human rights. Things change, guaranteed, but often they don’t get better for a long, long time; centuries. Resist, demonstrate, oppose.
But, check it out.
Don is 70 years old. Old man, right? He’s fat, bloated, red-faced. He is totally externally referred and worries about what others think of him. A lot. He insults and ridicules people he perceives as weak and believes he is some kind of expert on human nature. He’s angry as all get out, obsesses about people who disrespect him, quick to react, revenge seeker. He has an extended family of dipshits who, at any moment, could go off on some deviation that will unravel the whole expensive sweater. His business empire requires significant attention and he claims it will now be run by his moronic sons; he is hyperactive and can’t hold still, a jittery facemaking motherfucker; he’s loud; he has a modest education and competes with smarter people every single hour of every day; he has surrounded himself with sycophants and asskissers who will tell him what he wants to hear so he really has no idea what’s truly going on in the world of people; he likes the spotlight but he’s going to notice very soon that he will never never have another moment of privacy; his wife looks as if she’s ready to bolt or OD; Barron, the young son and heir and possible future candidate may turn out to be a flake off the old rock; the world is a shitstorm on spin with the dial set to eleven and Attention Deficit Don’s homework will be to study and familiarize himself so that he can make important informed decisions about international relations.
His stress levels and confusion are probably off the charts.
I don’t even know what I’m going to have for dinner so I can’t pretend to predict what will happen in the next six months, two years, four years, but based on the above data, real and observed, Trump, a piece of shit, is going to be in ICU sooner rather than later.
There is something about the image of D. Trump on an around-the-clock ventilator, I.V.s, morphine drip, strapped to a hospital bed, twisting in his restraints, surrounded by monitors and alarms, babbling 140-character coprolalia to an army of docs and therapists as media-weasels peek through the blinds at their president; out of it, degenerate, incontinent.
The thought cheers me up.
The future, coming soon.