We are reaching that point in the emperor’s story where even the adults are coming around, reluctantly and grudgingly, to the view that, yeah, he’s bare ass naked all right, and his little weenie is out there dangling in the wind. There are many examples, but thanks go to Vasari for this one from the Guardian:
Like some kind of Shakespearean villain-clown, Trump plays not to the gallery but to the pit. He is a Falstaff without the humour or the self-awareness, a cowardly, bullying Richard III without a clue. Late-night US satirists find in this an unending source of high comedy. If they did not laugh, they would cry. The world is witnessing the dramatic unfolding of a tragedy whose main victims are a seemingly helpless American audience, America’s system of balanced governance and its global reputation as a leading democratic light.
I don’t know, but I’d guess that most of you don’t read the National Review with any regularity. I know I don’t. But you probably need to make an exception today, to check out Devin Williamson’s Death of a F***ing Salesman. He writes,
Trump is the political version of a pickup artist, and Republicans — and America — went to bed with him convinced that he was something other than what he is. Trump inherited his fortune but describes himself as though he were a self-made man.
He has had a middling career in real estate and a poor one as a hotelier and casino operator but convinced people he is a titan of industry. He has never managed a large, complex corporate enterprise, but he did play an executive on a reality show. He presents himself as a confident ladies’ man but is so insecure that he invented an imaginary friend to lie to the New York press about his love life and is now married to a woman who is open and blasé about the fact that she married him for his money. He fixates on certain words (“negotiator”) and certain classes of words (mainly adjectives and adverbs, “bigly,” “major,” “world-class,” “top,” and superlatives), but he isn’t much of a negotiator, manager, or leader. He cannot negotiate a health-care deal among members of a party desperate for one, can’t manage his own factionalized and leak-ridden White House, and cannot lead a political movement that aspires to anything greater than the service of his own pathetic vanity.
He wants to be John Wayne, but what he is is “Woody Allen without the humor.” Peggy Noonan, to whom we owe that observation, has his number: He is soft, weak, whimpering, and petulant. He isn’t smart enough to do the job and isn’t man enough to own up to the fact. For all his gold-plated toilets, he is at heart that middling junior salesman watching Glengarry Glen Ross and thinking to himself: “That’s the man I want to be.” How many times do you imagine he has stood in front of a mirror trying to project like Alec Baldwin? Unfortunately for the president, it’s Baldwin who does the good imitation of Trump, not the other way around.
Hence the cartoon tough-guy act. Scaramucci’s star didn’t fade when he gave that batty and profane interview in which he reimagined Steve Bannon as a kind of autoerotic yogi. That’s Scaramucci’s best impersonation of the sort of man the president of these United States, God help us, aspires to be.
It’s great fun to talk about what kind of crazy Trump is. But there are plenty of crazy people in the world. We don’t usually pick one to be President.
And it isn’t as if Trump’s peculiarities were hidden until his election. Nothing whatsoever that has happened in the last six month’s is a surprise. It isn’t as if a reasonably normal person some kind of unexpected psychotic episode. The facts were there. Yet we elected him anyway.
The thing to be investigated is not Trump’s craziness, it is our craziness.
To that end, Aardvark has pre-ordered Twilight of American Sanity: A Psychiatrist Analyzes the Age of Trump.
When the book comes, I hope it will improve my own sanity.
From the Huffington Post:
And, from The Collected Poetry of Arius Aardvark:
I do not love thee, Scaramucci.
You cause deep pain within my tushy.
I spit upon your shoes of Gucci.
I do not love thee, Scaramucci.
Here at Happy Acres, the growing band of progressives has invited a speaker on Medicare for All. Everyone is excited.
Meanwhile, Fred Hiatt—no progressive he—has composed a thumb sucker called Behold the Trump boomerang effect. It’s like the Midas touch in reverse: everything that Trump wants to do backfires on him. Among many disparate examples, Hiatt addresses health care:
Obamacare is not just hanging on but becoming more popular the more Trump tries to bury it. And if he now tries to mismanage Obamacare to its death, we may boomerang all the way to single-payer health insurance. This year’s debate showed that most Americans now believe everyone should have access to health care. If the private insurance market is made to seem undependable, the fallback won’t be Trumpcare. It will be Medicare for all.
Unless Trump beats the Democratic establishment to the punch.
At Daily Kos Egberto Willies warns: Democrats beware: Trump may beat you to single payer Medicare for all.
I think Willies is right and Hiatt is wrong. Hiatt obviously has not grasped the full absurdity of the moment. Contrary to the reasonable but inaccurate assumption Hiatt makes, Trump does not give a flying fuck about keeping American health care in the tender embrace of the insurance industry. Trump wants a bill to that seems bold and courageous and has his name on it. That’s winning!
So, progressives, what do we do? The Paul Ryan Republicans made their deal with their devil, and it has not worked out well for them. Should we progressives propose our very own Faustian bargain? Should we embrace the
No, Donald, we’re not laughing WITH you, we’re laughing AT you.
Like other progressives, I often experience contemptuous amusement when thinking of The Donald. In Week 10: Donald Trump, Lion King, Jack Shafer captures the mood superbly:
Our leonine president spent the week pawing and poking his downed prey, Attorney General Jeff Sessions, licking the little man’s fur in great slurps with appetite-whetting tweets as he dillydallied about delivering the death bite and devouring his catch. …
Was it human sadism at work, an indication of how frustrated Trump has become at blunting the investigation into the scandal with no name? Or was it just Trump obeying the law of the savanna, which dictates that the strongest, largest cat with the most tufted mane and the most prolific seed shall dominate the pride at his leisure? …
His hairdo matted with lion spittle, Sessions temporarily escaped to El Salvador for a photo-op about deporting MS-13’s bad hombres. He quivered like a baby wildebeest suffering PTSD when Fox News Channel’s Tucker Carlson caught up with him to inquire about the president’s scolding. Trump’s steady disparagement was “kind of hurtful,” a humbled Sessions squeaked, “but the president of the United States is a strong leader.”
And so on, and so forth. It’s a fine piece. Feel free to divert yourself by reading the whole thing. I won’t blame you; in fact, I’ll join in with you, yucking it up.
That said, it is becoming clearer day by day that Donald Trump is a miserable man suffering from a serious mental disorder—a defect that literally makes it impossible for him to do the work he is paid to do. And, yes, I do mean “miserable” in the sense of “pitiably small or inadequate.” But, mainly, I mean “miserable” in the other sense: “wretchedly unhappy or uncomfortable.”
Suppose you knew a friend, Robert, in the days when he was a great orator. Now, afflicted with Alzheimer’s, Robert can only bumble through a short speech, committing many errors in the process. Would you feel contempt for Robert? I hope not. Would you feel amusement? Well, maybe a little, because some of the errors might be comical. But mainly, if you are the kind of person your dog thinks you are, you would feel pity and empathy. And, so, I feel pity and empathy for Trump.
Then there is the fear factor. Let’s say you’re a passenger on an airplane, and you come to learn that the pilot, having become incapacitated, has handed the cockpit over to his five year old son.
You would probably feel pity for the pilot—and, for that matter, the pilot’s son. And the little boy’s attempt to guide the plane might have its comic moments. But mostly you would feel abject terror, because your airplane is being piloted by a little kid.
Mark my words.
This week, Donald Trump is losing whatever support he had with the Republican establishment. This week, with his attacks on Sessions, his wingnut following is beginning to question what flavor of Kool Aid they have poured down their throats.
Yes, there will always be some supporters left. Some people still think Nixon was a great guy who got a raw deal. Some still think Hitler was a fine German and it’s too bad he lost the war. A lot of Chinese remain fond of Mao. But there is going to come a time—sooner rather than later—when the temple all comes crashing down.
And what, ladies and germs, will The Donald do?