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.
