Hard to Believe It’s Just 213 Days Until Disaster Time! #America

art by DonkeyHotey https://www.flickr.com/photos/donkeyhotey/
(art by DonkeyHotey)

So, about a year ago I wrote about Trump for the first time: “Listen: If We Don’t Start Taking Trump Seriously, He Will be President #FACT #NotJoking

I still think much of what is in that post is true, but realize that I’d failed to comprehend the scope of our national fuck-up.  Back in August 2015, I was seeing this as something liberals were messing up, by not taking Trump seriously and at face value.  It never dawned on me that it was all of us—left, right, center, and nutbag—who were botching this.  Yeah, even his supporters—even the worst among them, the vicious racists, the violent thugs—have it wrong, ’cause I think Trump is probably right about himself: He isn’t racist. Yes, he’s almost certainly a White Supremacist (in that his default and unexamined worldview privileges a White perspective in the same way as the sighted privilege the visual spectrum), but he really isn’t racist, per se, because a racist really does truly believe something—albeit something gross and erroneous.

I honestly don’t think Trump believes anything: He is an absolute empty vessel, the final fantastic, horrific, awful expression of American post-modernism: A perfect surface with no substance, a mirror-less mirror.

Is he a great negotiator?  No.

Is a great businessman?  No.

Is a statesman of any stripe? No.

Is he even a politician, in any conventional sense of the word?  No.

But he is possibly the greatest salesman this country has ever known, in part because he has perfected the sales process beyond the need for any product at all.

That said, there is something I’ve begun to question about that year-old post: How do prevent this mercurial, bellicose, void human-mask from entering the Oval Office.  Last August I counseled Compassion and Reason—and while I stick with Compassion (’cause I always do), I think Reason is useless here, because his sales process is crafted to short circuit and judo-throw reason.  Reason is the obstacle that Trump’s method is custom designed to overcome (for real; go read the Sales Playbook!  Many sections are devoted to jujitsu-spinning hesitation and reasonable objection into signing on the line which is dotted).

So while I counsel Compassion for Trump supporters, I also counsel Contempt—not for the voter, but for the Skinsuit with Hair Plugs himself.  Make Trump the object of dismissal, scorn, and visceral disgust.  Take the shine off his product-less product—make it not only not worth the money, but not worth the time or attention.

He is a Ding-Dong dropped on a fresh, warm dog turd.  

He is a mouthful of maggots on a sunny day.  

He is the smear at the bottom of a commercial kitchen trash can.  

Not a president, not a candidate, not even a man; let him be the strange, nihilistic object he has made of himself, a solipsistic point in a one-dimensional Universe, convinced he is a God.

Later, on November 9, he will be deserving of our compassion; he can be a man again, and rejoin humanity.

But until then . . .