Donald Trump is the Cain to our Abel, the Dick to our Dubya.
Political TV was quite interesting until the talking heads were claustrophobically replaced by all-Trump-all-the-time.
Now it’s almost impossible to visit any of them without being greeted by the Great Florid Monster with his jerky, dinosaur gestures and hollow, booming voice.
Every unhappily married woman, every frightened little child, knows that voice, the Big Daddy Voice.
You literally wither before it, under it, are crushed by it. The sonar waves have force. The voice is plastic, you can literally feel it. It slaps you in the face, punches you in the gut.
And the vicious sarcasm that goes with it, little Marco, crooked Hillary, lyin’ Ted. The half-facts, the straight-out lies, the distortions of history, the refusal to ever admit fault.
Donald Trump undoubtedly won every argument he ever had with his ex-wives.
And now he’s everywhere in our own lives. His Ugliness is internationally universal, on Facebook, Twitter, the tabloid front pages. Whether the news is to his gain or not, it’s always about Himself.
They call him The Donald. I call him El Supremo, a tin-pot South American dictator featured in one of C.S. Forester’s Hornblower novels. El Supremo got to strut and fret his hour or two before his inevitable defeat at the hands of the heroic Horatio.
But we? We the people? Can we ever rid ourselves of this fake-haired, sexually insecure money-grubber, as my pick for VP, Elizabeth Warren, so poetically put it?
May we not – eventually – triumph over this ego-maniacal conflation of everything that’s wrong with America by simply, unequivocally and finally voting him out? Will November 9 2016 be a new dawn in which it will again be bliss to be alive?
To put the question is, sadly, to answer it.
Can there be any doubt that 24 hours after his landslide loss to Any Democrat the moneyed egotist will be filing law suits challenging the result?
The airwaves will be replete with his unevidenced charges about fixed or rigged elections, and these may well be backed by actual violence from the racist and xenophobic forces he has already unleashed.
Assuming these are contained — a big assumption – we can expect Himself to continue to be a loud-mouthed agitator with a legion of frighteningly loyal and armed followers. Already the US Nazis are referring to him as “Our Glorious Leader.”
Who can predict the consequences of these varied un-predictabilites? Does anyone remember that great Burt Lancaster/Kirk Douglas movie, Seven Days in May? It’s about a damn-near successful coup of the US government by a charismatic autocrat. Catastrophe is avoided by a purely literary manipulation of the plot.
No, my fellow liberals, cartoonists, satirists, political commentators, editorializers and temperamentally opinionated observers, we are caught, stuck forever like the proverbial fly in amber, bit parts in the horrific saga of Donald J. Trump.
He is the Iago to our Othello, the Cain to our Abel, the Dick to our Dubya. He’s like a great stain of yellow oil slowly stifling the cries of the dying fish.
From one fish to another, see you at the surface.
