This…wasn’t supposed to happen.
Just for the record, I wasn’t at all surprised that Trump won; in fact, I was surprised that so many others were surprised. I wasn’t surprised, because by this point, I had become thoroughly disgusted with the democrats, whom I blame even more than the republicans for the creation of President Clown.
But nobody was more shocked than Donald “I’m a Winner and if I Don’t Win, the Game was Rigged” Trump.
I’ve always been fairly apt at interpreting facial expressions and body language, but you don’t have to be any kind of expert to read this face.This photo was taken right after he discovered he won:
Look at him. Does that look like a victorious man? Had I not known the circumstances, I would’ve interpret that expression as meaning he just slipped a disc in his spine and simultaneously shit his pants right before climbing into the Octagon for a cage fight with a 280 pound undefeated champ. Don’t believe me? Okay, let’s look at the same pose, taken a week before the election:
All I can say is that I sure as hell hope he doesn’t play poker…and if he does, I’d like to invite him to play a hand. Look at him. A half-witted dog with cataracts could see that he is scared shitless. And he damn well should be. He has gone out of his way to lead a tacky three-ringed life: the P.T. Barnum of nouveau riche flash and trash, christening every tasteless hotel, shady casinos, fraudulent “university” and big slabs of meat after himself–whatever it takes to keep the TRUMP neon sign constantly glowing. The money itself is incidental, merely a means to feed that insatiable monster ego. And now, he has accidentally traded all of that vulgar glory for the most demanding, least rewarding, non-stop job of staggering responsibility, in which he will have far less personal power than he’s ever had in his entire spoiled brat life.
Here he is, the leading champion of birtherism, immediately after meeting with Obama (and oh my GOD, would I have loved to be privy to that conversation):
Now I could interpret the significance of every single mannerism and pose they are taken–and there are plenty of sites online now who are doing that very thing–but you don’t have to be an expert in body language to read the power differential…that, and this obviously chastened (God, I would sell the rest of my soul to hear what Big O said to The Donald) Presidency-phobe suddenly declaring: “Uh, gee–turns out that Obamacare isn’t so bad after all…”.
In less than 24 hours, a life-long, self-entitled Alpha dog tucked his tail and broke his first campaign promise.
It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. For nearly a year, he inferred that African-Americans lived in hellish jungles and could only be saved by more law and order (republican for “shoot until they stop being so uppity”); referred to Mexicans as drug traffickers, gang members and rapists; made the outrageously ridiculous promise to build a mighty wall at the border to keep them out…and would make the Mexicans pay for it. Not only did he promise he would keep out all Muslims, he also proposed that Muslim-Americans–even those who were native born–should be forced to register, Nazi-style. His sexist piggery was so outrageous that it was almost kind of funny…in a “well, I guess I’m either going to laugh or go insane” kind of way.
It is my belief–and I don’t think I’m alone here–that all he ever wanted was to relieve that relentless, raging narcissistic jones by mainlining a daily fuckload of ATTENTION.
Yeah, really. At first, I would bristle at the latest fucked up thing he said, but think, “Well…that oughta do it; no way could he possibly recover from something so insanely offensive”. I mean, “Mexicans are rapists”?? Come on–not even Trump is that much of an imbecile. But instead of ending it all with a dignified, “fuck you if you can’t take a joke Trump Meat infomercial”, he kept lobbing out the insults. He made up ridiculous shit every…single…day. He lied outrageously and would lie that he lied an hour later. Don’t get me wrong–I think he enjoyed every minute of it, assuming that OF COURSE he would lose and he could live out his remaining years as an alt-right martyr, happily ranting against Crooked Hillary from his gold plated pulpit on TrumpTV, until…that’s it. I’m pretty sure he thinks that death is for looozers .
And the long-ignored angry white men and (appallingly, women…et tu, Brutusesses?) kept screaming for more. Violently. With unmistakable blood lust. Trump’s Traveling Cracker Coliseum continued onwards.
I tried to tell them. I repeatedly tried to warn the local chapter of the Democratic Party that ignoring a very large segment of the population is like never inviting your poor relation to the family reunions–eventually, he’s going to show up drunk and pissed off–but…Hilitant hubris. Even the Bernie folks scoffed at me. I felt like fucking Cassandra–gifted with the ability to predict the future but never believed; all I could do was watch helplessly as the democrats headed straight for the rocks. Thus, the inevitable Rise of the Rednecks. Trump was their collective FUCK YOU.
I gotta be honest: if he wasn’t such a horrible ratbastard turd, I might actually feel sorry for him. His fate, at best, is one of a polezni duraki--useful idiot: one to be manipulated by republican Machiavellis into performing their dastardly bullshit…only to be tossed in the end to the bloodthirsty throngs.
But it may already be falling apart; he hasn’t even taken office and there are reports of a cabinet purge…when it hasn’t even been fucking filled yet. Apparently, Il Duce Dumbass is suffering from paranoia and feeling beset on all sides. He kind of reminds me of an embattled dictator at the end of end of days…except stupid and at the very beginning. .
What the hell have we done? Donald wants to know.