There is no one unifying philosophy of people who support Donald Trump, but certainly high among their priorities is “owning the libs.” And so I’m here to say: You win. I am owned. My brain has exploded. I am gaslit. I am questioning reality and my own sanity. I am exhausted. I am anxious. I am DONE.
Because here’s the thing: Donald Trump is not just a bad president, he is literally one of the most awful humans I’ve ever encountered in my life.
Okay, I suppose there are worse people: Serial killers. School shooters. Dictators who officially murder their own (as opposed to, shall we call it, the soft manslaughter of COVID misinformation and neglect).
But in terms of someone who is in my face, who I have no choice but to contend with on a daily basis, Donald is the worst.
And he’s not even bad in a sneaky way. This is one of those brain breaking things. His awfulness is so manifest, so on display, he literally couldn’t hide it if he tried.
As I watch him at these rallies: waddling around the stage with a big stupid grin on his face, bloated, puffy, happy as a baby drunk on his mother’s milk, I think: This is repulsive.
And I’m not just talking about his appearance: The alarmingly orange skin, the puffy hair, the Mussolini-esque posture, the herky-jerky dance movements (to YMCA? Dafuq?). I’m not just talking about the fact that his rallies are super spreaders, often held in cities where he’s breaking public gathering laws set by health officials, and only perfunctorily suggesting mask use (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). I’m talking about his absolute and unending need for public affirmation. It’s his heroin. His rallies are his fix. And, like a junkie, he can never get enough.
And what does he talk about at those rallies? Does he express concern for the more than 220,000 Americans who have died from COVID? Does he lay out a plan for a better America? Does he express love for his country at all? No, all he does is lie and boast and spew nonsense about Russiagate and Hunter Biden and whine (so. much. whining) about the biased press. The press are such meanies! They hate poor me. Poor me, poor me, poooooooooor me.
In Iowa, he griped that the press covered the Iowa floods instead of his Nobel Prize nomination.
Let me repeat that: In Iowa, he griped that the press covered the Iowa floods instead of his Nobel Prize nomination.
But this is par for the course. He has made it clear over and over again that he only cares about himself. That he sees COVID as this horribly unfair thing that happened to him, that ruined his perfect economy, his re-election chances, his good mood.
There’s a word for a person who doesn’t care that 220,000 Americans died on his watch: sociopath.
And so now, his solution to the virus that is rapidly spreading across the country once again is to close his eyes, stick his fingers in his ears, and say, “La la la, I can’t hear you.”
And you guys are going along with it. Because, um, freedom. (Or something like that.)
Look, I could go on. I could talk about the way he grins, satisfied, amused, basking in it, as the crowd chants “Lock him/her up” about his foe of the day: Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden, Gretchen Whitmer. The media. (That is some serious dictator shit.) I could talk about the way he gives aid and comfort to white supremacists while condemning civil rights supporters like Black Lives Matter and Antifa (both of which are ideologies, by the way, not organized groups). I could talk about the way he only surrounds himself with yes men, people unquestioningly willing to do his bidding, and he fires, rejects, or otherwise throws under the bus anyone who dares to challenge him. (He demands unyielding, obsequious loyalty from others while being the least loyal man alive himself.) I could talk about his misogyny—ugh, the misogyny—but we’ve been through all that already. I could talk about the separation policy at the border, which is inhuman—yes, evil—a crime against humanity in plain sight. Which should’ve been disqualifying. Should’ve been the end of it right there.
I could talk about the golf—the only thing he likes more than whining is golf—because he’s not a serious man with serious thoughts. He just wants to be distracted, entertained, flattered, fattened, propped up. (He cheats at golf, needless to say.)
I could talk about the endless schedule of FoxNews viewing. The blathering interviews where even the hosts look desperate for an excuse to get off the phone (“Is that my wife I hear calling me?”). I could talk about the fact that every person who has been cast out of his inner circle—from Michael Cohen to Anthony Scaramucci to John Kelly to Rex Tillerson— now says that he’s a crook, a moron, incurious, barely literate, easily bored, self-obsessed, reflexively cruel, criminally unqualified.
It’s all there. We’ve seen it over and over again for four years.
So why? Seriously why the hell do people adore this man? Why have Republicans followed him over a cliff? Why do people attend his rallies, wear his merch, idolize him?
What am I missing? As I’ve written before, the things you think are great about him are not the case. He is not strong. Strong men don’t bully. Strong men don’t boast. Strong men aren’t so vain they require pounds of orange makeup that revoltingly bleed onto their starched white collars when they sweat. He is not a good businessman. He’s in debt up to his eyeballs. He is not draining the swamp. His is the swampiest administration of all time (at least 10 of his close associates have been indicted). He installs his children in positions they are unqualified for like a mob boss, like a king.
But he does do one thing brilliantly: He own the libs. I’ll give him that.
And I get it: Owning the libs is fun. You can point and laugh. But then what are you left with? A man who doesn’t give a shit about you. A man who literally said, “I don’t want to shake hands with these disgusting people.” (That’s you. You are the disgusting person.)
Yes I am owned. But if you are a supporter of the president, allow me to suggest the person owned even more is you.
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