Je Suis Trump

For around 11 months now, Donald J. Trump, whom I have alternately enjoyed referring to as Fucko the Klown and The Vat of Steaming Gonorrheic Discharge, has had my blood boiling. But I’ve had it easy compared to some I know, who’ve suffered high blood pressure and even the odd aneurysm. I have realised that the chances of my changing Mr. Trump are pretty small, and that the course of action with the best chance of success is to change myself. 

I haven’t failed to notice that Mr. Trump and I aren’t nearly as dissimilar as I might like to pretend, He desperately needs to be perceived as brilliant and hypermanly. I find machismo deeply distasteful, but God knows my appetite for affirmation is insatiable. People have always thought I was kidding when I said all I wanted in life was the Pope’s balcony, but I wasn’t saying it in jest. If, at the sight of me, countless thousands were to break into rapturous applause, as for His Papal Popeliness, it might make me feel for a few seconds like a viable human being. 

A few days ago, a reporter on Air Force One asked Mr. Trump if, because of Xi Jinping’s recent dramatic successes, he might feel intimidated by the Chinese leader. Mr. Trump was quick to point out emphatically (and, of course, completely falsely) that he too has been spectacularly successful in the first year of his presidency. Sounds like something I’d do! Whenever I hear anyone who does any of the things I do (writing, music, graphic design) being praised, I reflexively think, “Hey, what about me?” though sometimes I manage not to say anything. I think Morrissey (who has been called the greatest pop lyricist on earth, and whom, predictably, I think I’m better than) had a song called something like We Hate It When Our Friends Become Successful. Boy, did that resonate for me! 

Thin-skinned? The Trump epidermis must be one cell deep. Mine might be two. Rather than calling my detractor over-rated on Twitter, or suggesting that he or she is failing in business, I turn the hurt and anger inward, and go into a deep funk. Mr. Trump doesn’t like being troubled with details, and extensive preparation? Neither do I! Mr. Trump has no perceptible patience, and a low boredom threshold? Paisano! Mr. Trump commonly shoots his mouth off without knowing fully what he’s talking about? Me too, though perhaps less frequently, and my lovely vocabulary occasionally fools many listeners into erroneously perceiving me as smart. I don’t use Twitter.

Heartless? Me too! A friend reports she spent the day after the recent mass shooting in Texas in tears. I felt nothing much beyond fervent loathing of our national stupidity and the brazen venality of Our Elected Leaders. I stopped eating red meat in 1978, but when I did eat steak, I liked it well done (its looking bloody put me off bigly), just as Mr. Trump does. I have traditionally felt it imperative to be linked to beautiful women, thinking (as I suspect he does too) that the world might be marginally more likely to mistake me for a viable human being if I’d seemed to win the heart of one for whom other men lusted. We both dye our hair. When I encounter spectacular food, it’s hard for me to think of anything else, as it was when, explaining his decision to bomb Syria this past April, he could hardly stop talking about the glorious chocolate cake he and Xi had been enjoying at the time.

So how to proceed? Well, I’ve decided to think of Mr. Trump as the lead character in an ongoing TV sitcom — Oh, Donny, Not Again! — as a cross between Eddie Haskell (one word, UK readers: Google), Archie Bunker, and David Brent, a big, venal lummox who desperately wants everyone to love, or at least admire, him, but who’s forever doing or saying something that elicits only exasperation, dismay, or even wrath in all but a few louts even more clueless and feckless than he. 

Just picture it. After a long, exhausting day of being president of the United States, our hero staggers into the tavern where he likes to commiserate with his pals, a Russian spy, a Mafia enforcer, and an alcoholic golf pro. The Mafia enforcer says, "Yo, Donny. Why the long face?" He, and the spy and golf pro, all pronounce the definite article as though it starts with a d.

Our hero, who doesn't drink, draine the glass of ginger ale the bartender has slid across the bar to him. He shakes his head and says, "I called the widow of this coloured soldier who was killed in some little African country I'd never heard of. Do you think she was grateful? Like hell she was grateful! She busts my balls because I forget Hubby's name. Some gratitude!|"

The Russian spy, Mafian enforcer, and golf pro all shake their heads at each other. The golf pro says, "You can't live with 'em..."

The Mafia enforcer finishes his thought for him. "And you can't live with 'em!" to the accompaniment of delighted canned laughter, folowed by delighted applause. Our expectations confounded! Hilarious!

Donny says, "But you can always grab 'em by the pussy!" On the soundtrack: canned groaning, and a couple of snickers. Oh, Donny, not again!