OUR DARKEST HOUR

On Sunday, while a bullet ridden student from Parkland, Florida was being buried, your president was a scant few miles away and instead of paying his respects he elected to do what you elected him to do: play golf at his swank resort for the 93rd time since he was sworn in.

 Later on during the day he polled his pinky ring CEO buddies to ask if he should do something about gun control which was discussed, no doubt, while he stuffed his face with a beautiful piece of let them cake. 

Pictures of previous presidents visiting the scene of gun related tragedies show moments of survivor enveloped hugs.   Trump and his pull toy wife, dressed preposterously like a nurse, showed up and posed with doctors with a shit eating grin, flashing a thumbs up sign which is the American equivalent of throwing paper towels at the hurricane survivors of Puerto Rico.

If Sarah Huckabee wasn’t such a preposterous lying pigtoon, I would feel sorry for her because every single day her job is to defend the next outrageous and offensive thing that your president just said or did.  Every. Single. Day. She should be a spokesman for the Defense Department.

Years ago Martin Short played a lying, sweaty, unctuous, chain smoking bureaucrat on SNL who, in uncomfortable close up, denied any wrong doing with a know it all smirk.  His face to me, is the face of this administration.

Today we come to Photo Op Number Two for Trump when kids from Parkland come face to face with him to beg for their lives and every other child’s in America.   This request directly to the head of the GOP who believes in the right to life for fetuses only.   Once you are born, apparently you are baby bump stock gold.

Backing him up is his Vice President, who to me, is another lying sack of duplicitous shit.  Man of God my ass.  All that religious posing to this astute observer is the work of a man with a double life, who self loathes his hots for Adam in the Garden of Eden, which is version of a strip club.  Look at his record and you will throw up.  Jesus would throw up.  God would be dry heaving.

Today Trump will pretend to listen and then no doubt treat those children the way that he treats his own.  In restitution for their loss, he will offer them a 10% coupon at the Mar-a-Lago gift shop,  a free trip to the Serengeti to shoot defenseless animals for sport (with severed elephant tails as a souvenir), and the chance to travel the world to sell Trump condos for dirty money while meeting with world leaders which is insanely unconstitutional given that it is against the law for a President to receive gifts of any kind from any foreign power.

And who do I blame of all of this. 

You.

Me.

Any of us who sits idly by, shaking our head like a bemused parent,  throwing up our hands upon hearing the next insulting bullshit that this national shame clown has said  and then, instead of raising our fists and voices in a public demonstration of rage, we instead go on to make Jeff Bezos even richer by the second.

There are so many distractions, more than ever, for the American public, thanks to those bitches Netflix and Amazon alone who trot out the next addition of their programming grid that resembles a Deli menu or the train schedule boards at Grand Central Station.

We buy and binge like a generation of indulged Emperors and in that respect, we are no different than Trump because our daily lives and compulsive habits are just like his.

We are Trump.  

And that is why we let him get away with murder.

Initially we were willing, during the campaign, to treat him like Dr. Necessary Evil, a cartoon villain who was so absurd that his representing the GOP was just what we needed.   He could be the world’s worst poster boy without us, which would free us to go golfing 93 times in 15 months,.

But what we didn’t get is that we were living in the world of the film “Network” and Howard Beale was running for President as was Lonesome Rhodes from “A Face In The Crowd.”  And so was Professor Harold Hill from “The Music Man.”

The Don was a Con Artist (His campaign slogan should have been “Yes I Con”) and the public, desperate to escape the idea of that college educated black man telling them what to do for eight years,  were willing to suspend all belief and go with the foul mouthed white boy/carnival barker and everyone wanted in on his Freak Show ride so he could take care of those Inglorious Bastards who shut down their coal mines.

This was the second coming.

But what it really was, was the second helping.

This was an opportunity for a habitual business disaster whose specialty was gaming the system with loopholes and bankruptcy, at the expense of “students’ and day laborers, who would be massively ripped off, while he rented out properties to known Russian thugs and money launderers while he pretended to be the character Art,  of Deal fame, who was not even his invention.  Someone else did the heavy lifting there too.

But the winds of change are coming, and they have that lovely Dylan-like fragrance.

Since the Artful Dodger keeps slithering out of one accusation after another, including 19 victims of his sexual abuse, he has single handedly turned his home into the Walter White House.   And we know how that turned out.  Do the meth.

We are just gearing up to begin the new revolution, folks.  We are about to get woke.

Instead of being able to kick his fat ass out for sexual abuse, we are at the gun range,  doing target practice with Harvey Weinstein, Kevin Spacey and Charles, who evidently, was too much in Charge.

Women are gathering by the millions 1970’s style, not to burn their bras, but to brand his tan slathered forehead with the letter “A,” dressed in symbolic black, which is what they will all wear at the funeral of his presidency

The biggest joke to me is that, between his face and hair, he is the symbol of a cover-up and he can’t even do that well.   That Cinnabon swirl and Orange Cheetohs complexion says it all to me.   He thinks he’s pulling it off while the public laughs at him.

He tells us what he is thinking, like when he blurted out to Lester Holt that he fired Comey over the whole “Rusher Thing.”

He told us during the election that it was rigged.  He actually said it.

Since then he has publicly stumbled and blundered, even shared sensitive intelligence with Soviets IN the Oval Office—while taking pictures.

You know the rest.  He documents it all.  And then he and his Crisco slathered son shove it in our faces and laughs and laughs all the way to their off shore accounts.

.

Because this is and has always been Trump’s version of America.

In lieu of being blessed with any God given talent or natural intelligence, he has instead robbed, raped and pillaged for his entire life and all his followers see is Captain Jack Sparrow, charming pirate who just may share some of that booty.

The Trumps are a Boy brand.  

An image.  

Just like a swastika.  And he comes with rallies too.  And promises to make GermanyAmerica great again.

If you want to understand what a real political hero is,  I suggest that you go see the film “The Darkest Hour” where you will eyewitness the passion and compassion of Winston Churchill who was a flawed, sometimes crude and bellicose character who rose to greatness by doing the one thing that someone like Trump is incapable of doing:

Listening to the average, everyday person who informs him doing the absolute worst of times , what the true will of the people was,

That alone, during  Britain’s  absolute darkest hour, is what ultimately bathed in him searing, white Parliament  light and turned him into the penultimate altruistic public servant who inspired a country that was on the eve of certain defeat, to stand firm and fight to the last.

Compare that to who we have now and argue your case.

I dare you,