TWGB: The Once And Future President

 

As I fleetingly touched on earlier, Sidney Powell is still touting the possibility that Trump really won 2020 and will somehow be reinstated, and it seems like Trump himself believes this very weird thing, too. You could point out for a number of reasons why this makes no sense at all and isn't how anything works, and it would not mean a whole lot to the sort of person who would come to this belief in the first place, because that person is no longer concerned about what makes sense or how things worked in the real world, if they ever did. 

Where the Trump mythos takes place is in a different world, though. Even Powell, when financially pressed, will point out that it's a fictional one. But in the Trump mythos, Our Everyman can come back from multiple trips to the underworld. He can be bankrupt, investigated, be waylaid by "temptresses", be stabbed in the back (I have shaded him before but--Bret Stephens wrote a very good one, there, no lie) by the press and even insufficiently faithful political allies. But he isn't supposed to lose. And that faith (wherever tokens of faith are sold) will be rewarded with either satisfaction, or knowledge. Or not. (They're just getting ripped off. )

So on a day when the New York Times lets us know that Mark Meadows, Trump's COS, spent the last days of Trumpelot wielding a lance on a dubious quest to find the Golden Chalice of Shit that Would Make Trump not Have Lost the Whole Fucking Enchilada, we see baggy-pants clown Trump, Trumpliaccio, take to the North Carolina GOP convention, to be wrong about things like whether the Spanish Flu pandemic started in 1917 (Jesus, this again?) or, you know, whether he didn't spend the early part of the pandemic kissing Xi's ass because he fucked up the China trade issue. 

Meadows even questioned whether it was an Italian Job. I blogged this one in disbelief the night before the insurrection that some people had come to swallow extraordinary stupidities--and found myself acknowledging what was said so often just after January 6--those who can make you believe absurdities, can make you commit atrocities. 

And all for this guy.

This. This tottering elderly unvital slurring fuck, who looks like his ass is on backwards, and has his hair piled into a box and sprayed square before being dumped onto his numb receptive skull, is probably the GOP 2024 front-runner.

Not Ted Cruz. Not Tom Cotton, Not Nikki Haley. Not Marco Rubio. Not Mike Pence. Not Josh godforsaken Hawley. This guy. This guy right here. 

So basically, he's both the worst threat to democracy that ever existed, or the best friend the Democratic party ever knew. He had the White House, and seems to think he will have it again. 

If Ronna McDaniel finagles the primaries to benefit him, and eliminates debates so he doesn't get his ass kicked in, because of course, he needs that advantage just like he needs stimulants and capacious legwear, I don't really worry about how well Democrats will do. But I guess some people's mileage may vary. Even if Trump is clearly going nowhere.

He's the once and future president that our country will have to work to live down. A national nightmare. A conspiracy-theory president. A myth. But look and despair. There's also a real human being called Trump, and shit. Horror and pity. Horror and pity. Family tragedy and all that. But I also think his kids encourage dear papa in his madness. and alas--the GOP as well. This clown Lear, former king and fool at once.