“Trump river, wider than a mile...”
“Would you like to swing on a star, carry trumpbeams home in a jar” (“Or would you rather be a trump? A trump is an animal that lies all the time, too many to fit into a rhyme. He struts and he poses and he does a dumb dance; He goes backstage where they’re wearing no pants. So if you want to turn the world into a dump; you could grow up to be a trump.”)
“Trumplight becomes you, it goes with your hair...”
“Shine on, shine on harvest trump...”
Building on universal enthusiasm for rebranding the Kennedy Center in his honor, Trump, we believe, is set to announce renaming humanity’s all-time favorite nighttime sky object, too. No longer the moon. Trump.
And who’s better at shining on than Trump? His speech last week to that part of the nation that still believes his lies outdid all his previous ones; not in terms of lies and made-up facts, by which measure they’re all the same, but in brevity, rapidity, and decibels. He shouted the golden oldies and came up with new material, too. Check these links. They should be required reading for MAGA.
Normal human beings -- and there’s the problem – would hesitate to tell lies so easily debunked. They might even blush, look down at their feet. Not Trump. His lies are a steady stream without so much as a second’s hesitation or compunction. The only questions about his absurd lies are whether he believes them, and, if not, why his disciples do. Trumpists lack any curiosity about and desire for truth, accepting as gospel his every word.
“One year ago,” he lied, “We were absolutely dead. (Ed note: by what criteria?) But now we’re the hottest country anywhere in the world. (Ed note: by what criteria?)” According to Trump, every world leader tells him that. Another lie, more likely than not; but it’s certainly true that world leaders recognize Trump’s pathetic need for praise and easy manipulation when he gets it. So maybe not.
There also could be some truth to the “hottest” claim, if not now, soon. For reasons buried deep in his psyche, Trump is deliberately making climate change not only worse, by banning offshore windfarms while allowing offshore drilling and disincentivizing the use of electric vehicles, solar power, and more, but, by closing the National Center for Atmospheric Research, in Colorado, he’s making its effects less traceable and solutions more elusive. It’s perverse, destructive stupidity, willfully ignored and effectively facilitated by Republican representatives of the Americans most directly endangered by it.
Trump’s woeful naming spree just traveled back to the 1940s, the last time the US built a battleship, after which their obsolescence and vulnerabilities, especially in the last few decades, became increasingly clear. That’s of no concern to Trump, who, as he’s told us, knows more about war than all generals and admirals combined. If it weren’t for his miraculously disappearing bone spurs and five deferments, which, unlike me and millions of others, tragically kept him from serving, he’d know even more.
So, he announced, he’s authorized a new category of battleships, to be referred to as “Trump class.” Maybe a few feeble Republicans in Congress will awaken from ten years of torpor to prevent spending the billions the ships would cost, recognizing there’s no reason to build them except to feed Trump’s pathological, almost pitiful neediness.
I assume we agree that “Trump class” is an oxymoron. Those two words don’t belong, ever, in the same sentence.
There is some irony here: as anxious as Trump is to have his name plastered everywhere and to build oversize, tasteless structures to display it, he’s uncharacteristically reluctant to have it appear anywhere near the so-called Epstein files. He and his personal law firm, for the last year doing business under another oxymoronic title, The Department of Justice, aren’t hiding their contempt for the law and the public, brazenly redacting, withholding, and disappearing major parts of those documents which they so reluctantly released to Congress. Nor can they hide the indisputable inference: he’s guilty as hell. (Saying so makes me, by the DOJ’s Trumpophilic definition, a domestic terrorist.)
There’s good news, though: I, winner of the “Fred’s auto parts and bakery great peace of writing” award, sleuthed a telling portion of the missing files. Read and report back.
Since the season of good cheer is upon us, I’ll not mention the deliciousness of Republican Congressdwellers subpoenaing Special Counsel Jack Smith but refusing his request to testify in public. He has the goods on Trump, and they know it.
Rather, in the holiday spirit, I hope everyone had a merry Trumpmas, happy Trumpukkah, a meaningful Trumpzaa, and, belatedly, a satisfying Trumpwali. Together, let us prepare to face twenty-trumpty-six.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Comments back, moderated. Preference given for those who stay on topic.