Trump: An Unauthorized Biography
Sometimes less is more. This is one of those times.
Donald Trump is an anachronism, an artifact of a life pretended. If he did not exist, we would have had to invent him—perhaps as a cartoon, not as someone who is larger than life, but as one who gets to live apart from us in a parallel universe. It’s what he prefers. He makes his own rules, while he breaks them, only to create a new bobble in his maze of make believe that changes with every turn. We can therefore envy him—in a weird sort of way. We don’t have to touch him. We live vicariously through him as he bumbles and stumbles, calls others idiots, and gets away with it. We, being of sounder minds, cannot do the same. But it’s fun to watch an overweight, overblown dither-head, with the mental capacity of a 3rd grade dropout who smiles and waddles around thoroughly convinced he walks alone because of his superior mind. Yes, the world of sanity is his oyster, and he swims around in it as a self-proclaimed pearl adrift in a sea where the ick and the goo do not rise up high enough to support his weight, or his charm, or his hair. Oh what a tangled web he weaves, as he lives but to deceive. We can only watch and marvel at the resiliency of his bubble as he bounces and blithers, and where he breaks all the rules. All the while we know that on one of his bounces, his joy ride will end, and like Humpty Dumpty he will fall—with a splat—while all the king’s horses, and all the king’s men try to put him back into the black hole of imagination that has run its course.
Meanwhile, back in our mundane universe, where accountability rules the day, our lives go on. Yet there he is, on the ballots from Maine to California, as the choice of munchkin-like followers to accept his just due, and we—the sum of some of us—align our stars to make him the Emperor of All he Surveys, where reality ends and the real mischief begins. We propose to give him the nuclear codes, and the authority to propel us all into his black hole of Never, Never land—where what might have been meets with the Singularity of Truth, and we all become fading memories of a universe that used to be.
This tale will take many a twist and turn between now and November, but this much we can discern with near certainty: We ain’t seen nuthin’ yet. He has already lost Pennsylvania by 11 points, but that is only because the sane ones cheated and voted against him. It’s true because he said so. And as other states fall before the fact, the cheating goes on. This is Logic 101 in his world. Deal with it. And every time reality rears its ugly head, he invents a new bobble, and bounces over it. What a way to live!
But, alas, there will be no coronation in November. That is because somewhere there is a golf course that needs to arise in the minds of locals, who crave a piece of fiction to sustain them; where monuments to opulence await their construction; where hopes need to be raised before they are shattered; where the Donald can plant his banner and proclaim another victory for humanity as he knows it; and where history will record yet another bankruptcy, another failure to be recorded in his books as a glorious victory. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying only that the Donald was here. He came, he saw, and he left a stain on the world that we invented for him. Still, there but for the grace of God, go we—the few, the proud, the enlightened ones.
