BOX TO THE FUTURE: TRUMP AS LIGHTWEIGHT

Here in these United States, when it comes to the presidency,  I feel like we have gone from the butterfly grace, steely-eyed confidence and attractiveness of Mohammad Ali to the clumsy journeyman Lightweight Robin Deakin, who had 2 wins and 52 losses, who was known as one of the worst boxers ever.   He wasn’t even smart enough to bite someone’s earlobe off.

As is our way, we covet our star athletes and elevate their status to Olympian Greek God on the promise of a great potential alone showering millions of dollars on them like circus confetti.

Often, an outsized ego, like a Greek tragedy, will inevitably lead to cheating and in the end a most spectacular, Nixon-size self-defeat.   

It’s one thing for the young Cassius Clay, who was an actual Olympian, to declare that he was the greatest, because when you are THAT good, you are flooded with messages from every single one of your individual nuclei which informs you in the language of genetic coding that you are even better than that.

In the case of Trump, he too is flooded with messages from downtown DNA which inform him of the total opposite, which he deliberately scrambles and turns into missives of mirror distorted self-importance.  That is how the spectacularly weak and colossally stupid compensate for the truth of their deep seeded feelings of chemical-induced inadequacy.

To be on the offensive is way too risky because your fathomless lack of talent will be on full display, so instead of being found out, you go on the defense ALL the time.  

That is what was once called Rope-A-Dope and we all know what that kind of bombardment can do to the most vulnerable interior of the human head.

Living with Trump is like living with a nasty, brain-damaged boxer (or in-law) whose toxic bitterness fuels their incoherent rage and early morning twitters.

He couldn’t even go one round with Barbara Boxer.

How can this not affect you?  How can that not wear you down?   They can’t tell the difference between the punching bag and you.

If you around them too much, it is inevitable that you will find yourself becoming just like them and sooner or later even Ray Donovan gets weary.

You find yourself raging bull raging at images of them and their equally stupid and spectacularly self-centered cronies including their crooked eyebrow pig with pearls press secretary who relishes in her smug, lauded over you power to bullshit and worse, insult the intelligence of a room full of reporters who are light years more intelligent, moral and decent than her.

And it’s not just us that is being affected.  

World allies get affected.  Enemies get affected.  And just like that the whole world is on the defense and we find ourselves in little over a year on the brink of all kinds of wars, both tariff and nuclear.

What is to be done?

Answer: we have to treat washed up, third-rate boxers like Trump-like our end of the road parents.

There comes a time that we have to become #metoo proactive, take the keys away from them, strap on the Depends and remove all responsibilities from their lives so all they have to do is what, at this point, is all they have been capable of doing for years: bleach and swirl their preposterous lacquer sprayed hair and smear on make up which makes them look like Bette Davis in “Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?   Let them spend the rest of their days sitting on a park bench talking to the breadcrumb crazed flapping Clay pigeons who are the only ones on the planet who will give a shit about what they have to say.

Or you can simply put them away in a home.

If the boxing glove no longer fits, you have to commit.

For the rest of us, retirement from the ring, the one that we have involuntarily found ourselves trapped in, will be beyond liberating and curative.

We, who are intelligent, passionately empathetic and ready to march at the drop of a national disgrace or personal insult (like attacking traumatized high school children/survivors of a mass murder) know that both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution was written for EVERYONE and have been waiting, like the neglected, forced-to-their- rooftops flood survivors of the New Orleans floods  to be recused, day after day after day.

The day that this out-boxed, out-classed, punch drunk President topples likes a Confederate General or Saddam Insane statue will be our V-Day.

Until then, we will have to sit at ringside, forced to watch a fixed-like-a-Russian election, fight, watching one high-ranking, White House advisor or cabinet leader after another, get sucker-punched to the canvas as our most grotesque and feared Ivan Drago enemy who attacked everything that we hold dear,  is given a parade in his honor and a welcome home party at the White House.

That is what we will have to live with.

Until this card appears:  Mueller vs. Trump.

That will take care of the I of the toothless tiger.