It was pretty funny back in June when the blow-dried blowhard Donald Trump declared himself a candidate for the Republican Party’s nomination for President of these United States with his rallying cry of “You’re Fired” “Make America Great Again.”
Eight months later the yuks ain’t so yuuuge anymore, especially among those who rant on the radio to the right of center and just above the police calls ideologically.
Most, if not, all of these folks have been at war with the political culture in our nation’s capital as well as with most aspects of logic and reasoning since at some point shortly after Saint Ronald of Reagan stopped being the President.
The same bloviators who called the (Bill) Clinton Presidency “America Under Siege,” and who still think Barack Obama is a Kenyan Marxist have insistently called upon The Almighty (actually their version of Him) to deliver them and their country from a Potomac Captivity.
And as the demolition derby, masquerading as primary season, grinds on, the Grand Old Party’s triumvirate seems to be Senator Rubio, Senator Cruz, and so pervasive he takes the air out of the room, most especially Donald Trump.
But instead of being happy about a (seemingly inevitable) Trump Presidency, these same pundits weep and wail, gnashing their teeth and rending their garments (that’s a visual with Limbaugh the Porcine that I could live without forever) as The Trumpster sweeps voters of all kinds into his sack.
They are angry and angered that Mr. Trump is edging inexorably closer to being the standard bearer for the party of Lincoln (not that any of them would let Lincoln anywhere near the GOP of 2016) without being A True Believer.
I’ll give them this, they tried. Hard. As someone who doesn’t share most of their positions, I often find them very trying, as well as annoying. Instead of devoting their intellectual energies to what is basically a fool’s errand they might have been better off researching the Golem of Prague whom, I submit, The Donald most closely resembles, physically and philosophically.
The radio rabble–rousers, elected by and accountable to, no one have yearned for a day of deliverance from ‘liberal,’ ‘progressive,’ and ‘politically-correct ‘ governance in the worst way possible so they have no one but themselves to blame when the answer to their prayer appears as a stevedore in an Armani suit with a can’t-help-but-stare-at-it comb over. He may very well be that worst way. The Lord truly moves in mysterious ways.
Cosmetics and appearances aside, the Golem of Lower Manhattan is unencumbered by specifics for any of his proposals and programs, or verifiable facts for nearly all of his ad hominem attacks on anyone in his line of sight and lacks a governor in his brain that would automatically close his mouth before spewing stupidity (Dr. Carson has one; it explains his perpetual silence).
Macbeth's Three Witches could not have created anything to rival Forrest Trump, a Bombastic Triumph of Style over Substance who is now the poster child for a Star-Spangled Wretched Excess we can’t seem to get quite quit of and who may prove to be the most Cautionary of American Tales since Hancock turned to Jefferson on a hot July day in Philadelphia and asked ‘where do I sign?”
-bill kenny
If you're waiting for Birnam Woods to come to the Dunsinane Trump Castle, it's a long way to November.
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