I Fell In Love with a Communist
These are, admittedly, strange times in the Social Republic of America. We’re waiting to be great again and this week we’re anticipating the decision regarding whether Brett Kavanaugh should be confirmed to the Big Bench. Partisanship has reached a boiling point judging by the spluttering screed of Sen. Lindsay Graham in a spirited attack on ‘you people’, meaning his colleagues on the other side of the aisle. Kavanaugh shouted a conspiratorial diatribe at everyone from liberals to the Clintons, a sad beginning for what might become this era’s new judicial restraint.
Evidently the playbook now requires undermining the legitimacy of the press, attacking our own government and the government of our allies, ripping up trade treaties and treaties to keep nuclear weapons contained, using the powers of Congress and the President to attack perceived enemies, something we frowned on in the Nixon years but apparently is fine now. What’s really intriguing in these vitriolic times is the President’s embrace of folks like Russia’s Putin and the Philippine’s Duterte, totalitarian strongmen bereft of law and decency, but who Trump nevertheless touts as worthy of emulation. Try to imagine Obama channeling Joseph Stalin. Or George Bush writing Valentine Day cards to Khomeini. You think things aren’t upside down, inside out, think again.
This week Donald fell in love. Not with Melania, not with Ivanka, not with Lindsay Graham (although I think he may have a crush), but with none other than Little Rocket Man, who, sez the Prez, wrote him a wonderful letter, an admiring letter, a letter that was nothing less than a work of art. You want Trump’s respect, praise him. You want his admiration, suck up to him. You want his love, tell him how great a leader he is. He’ll return the favor. You don’t even have to have incriminating evidence of prostitutes pissing on his bed, he’ll return your love.
The man just wants approbation. He wants you to say he’s not just okay, he’s the most okay of anyone, ever, anywhere, anytime. If we had god kings, he would be ours. If we build him a pyramid, he would find it in his heart to forgive us. If we chisel out Lincoln’s ugly visage on Mt. Rushmore and replace it with his, the world would be given to you. If you took out the other three losers and renamed the mountain Mt. Me, no door would ever be closed to you. All he wants is your love. Love is all he needs. In the meantime he has to find it in all the wrong places.
Tags: A Bully Bromance, Trump and Kim Jung Un
You’re on to something, that’s for sure.
After Trump leaves the Presidency and his approval ratings rise as the public’s memory fades, he deserves more from his adoring countrymen (not sure about the women), more than a Presidential Library.
Let’s face it, even the Little Library on the South End would be far too large to hold the collected books Trump started to read, and papers he remembered signing during his term (singular) in office.
He needs something suitably large, which will properly commemorate his contributions to America. And a pyramid, the biggest the world has ever seen, made with the leftover scraps from that Wall With Mexico he never built would definitely show the love. Future American’s could gaze upon it and wonder, as we have this past week concerning the Devil’s Triangle, is the other meaning for Trump Pyramid a drinking game, with beer, or a sex act, probably with beer?
I forget what wag sketched a proposed Nixon Monument, a huge hole in the ground a dog was peering down into with a confused expression on its face. You are absolutely spot on about the Trump library. Probably put a banker box next to the Tower and call it Monument to Illiteracy: Put Your Suggestions Inside.
I like that idea!
We don’t need no Trump Library, a Trump Suggestion Box is more than enough. Day after day it would be filled with little scraps of paper musing over all the ways we could have done better. The children, who are our future, drop pennies into The Trump Box hoping it might have powers like a wishing well, for a better future, while they recollect the day their parents bought a Make America Great Again hat, leaving them with the wreckage and debris from four years of ignorance. They never did get a manufacturing job, a wall, lower taxes, or even a job that pays them enough so they can afford air conditioning now that the earth is as hot as an unventilated coal mine.