The question is, does President Donald “Joffrey” Trump think he’s having a fun wrestling-entertainment-style feud with CNN and most of the rest of the US press in order to boost his personal ratings, as if he were a television show himself?
Or is Donald J. Trump having a Kim-family-of-North-Korea kind of experience, finding himself enraged that the people His Royal Totally Not A King-ness owns dare do something other than gather in solemn worship of The Totally Not Thinning Or Dyed Haired Demigod Who Walks Among Us Little People?
I think the answer is yes, both, and even more still.
Have you noticed he keeps having rallies? Either he must refresh himself with the blood of mortals on a regular basis or he’s having rallies so he can bask in adulation and remind himself he is worshiped. Which, really, are almost the same thing.
And he does think he’s having a fun feud (I’m sure he’s enjoying himself to some extent, rubbing his hands together and muttering to himself, “that’ll really piss them off” like a standard-issue online troll). But it’s not just fun, it’s active publicity seeking. After all, doing outrageous things for the press is the way he kept his name in the public eye for decades. He craves attention terribly — if only his parents had frickin’ hugged him once in a while we might not be where we are. But we can say that about a lot of famous White (mostly) guys (mostly) who for some reason are always referred to by all three of their names, Donald John Trump.
He obviously loves working a crowd up, and political crowds probably give him the loudest cheers he’s gotten in his life. I’m sure it feels like a blast of pure crack to the naked brain for a lifelong attention junkie. To get those big rally cheers he’s got to keep the mob worked up. If they start thinking the cheers might become less lusty. We see the understanding of that in the disdain and disgust for things like education, expertise, and experience, which he campaigned against nearly as much as he campaigned against Hillary Clinton, and which he has mostly driven out of the Executive Branch and anywhere his direct influence can comfortably reach. It dovetails nicely with the pseudo-anarchic smash-everything-ism of (co-?) President Bannon, as well.
Keeping the mob riled up and validating his feelings of superiority also keeps bothersome qualities like reason, empathy, and humanity from surfacing in his vicinity. And those would be problematic for him because not only might someone question him instead of just shouting WOOO! YEAH! but also I’d say his entire life as a unit is a long illustration of the fact that he just doesn’t get those things. In fact, not only does Donny “the J stands for “teeny hands”” Trump not understand reason, empathy, and humanity, but he appears to hate and be disgusted by those qualities.
Which perhaps is a way of life he learned at the knee of Daddy The Slumlord or Daddy the Racist or Daddy Who Never Said I Love You But Called Poor Little Donny A Screwup Way Too Often.
Which, yes, is sad. But we’re the ones suffering for it. If he’s suffering, it’s down deep in a withered empty shell where once he hid the nascent humanity of his youth, but now keeps a raisin that is probably long dead like an inhabitant of the crawlspace under the house of that famous clown’s house.
At seventy-one years old, he has made the awful lessons he learned his own, and has obviously passed it down to his cold, casually-dehumanizing progeny. A proud heritage.
Before I go further, let me bring the title in.
Journalists who publish things other than the praise and uncritical adulation Trump craves are, in his words, “the enemy of the American people.” By which he means that as President, the United States is a thing he owns and therefore the people in it are things he owns and therefore people who are journalists and don’t do exactly what he wants are broken things he owns that defy him. And those are things to be hated and crushed.
Your free press is to be hated and crushed.
Your free speech is to be hated and crushed.
You, too, are an enemy of the people, unless you come to praise and only praise Lord Donald “Being Born Rich Makes Me Better Than Mere Humans” Trumpet Solo.
But, you say, it’s all hyperbole.
I say, he doesn’t know what that is. He believes in his own superiority and your inferiority. He believes it deep down and he avoids thinking otherwise, because he avoids thinking. He has told us just that many times.
All the rest of what I’ve said follows because he has no introspection and/or ambition to be a better person. He sees no need. He believes he is already the best person ever, and he has believed that since grade school.
He doesn’t think. He hasn’t the depth to keep someone by his side to whisper “you are just a man” into his ear. He hasn’t — he avoids — understanding who and what he is and why he does what he does and thinks what he thinks and feels what he feels and wants what he wants.
All of the above bleeds and oozes from his every word and action because he doesn’t understand hyperbole, but chooses it as a way of life and mode of communication. And he doesn’t understand civil rights, society, the press, government, human beings, or himself. Period. He’s the ultimate know-nothing, and he doesn’t want to know anything about you except whether or not you’re a Trump worshiper or the enemy.
Jillian Gomez-Chen clicked her goggles tight. The earpieces made the smothered crackle of compressing acoustic foam in her ears and the buzz of the riding mower in the back yard beyond her bedroom window faded, faded, disappeared.
Gameworld flicked to life in her eyes and ears. Lovely sensories, brighter and livelier than life; no mowers, no fading fall leaves or scuffed wooden floors. Supergreen grass, deep sun you could gaze into painlessly; the river she materialized beside tinkling on the edge of music. All beautiful, but for one multiplicitous thing.
She brought up SETTINGS, clicked DIALOGUE and moved the slider to PG – CENSORED.
Jillian hated to censor anything, but…
“You look like a stupid n_____ b____ in that avatar,” another player shouted from a hilltop on the other side of the river. The PG filter did its job; Jillian sighed. Of course, she understood what went in the audio blanks.
Jillian’s avatar was tall as she was not, a Night Elf, indigo like a moonless night sky. She brushed a hand through her white virtual hair, raking back the tapering tips of her elf-ears the way she liked, fierce.
Bringing her hand throwing forward, she turned to face the faraway player troll. Blinked MENU to MAGIC and ARMOR EATING LAVA BURST.
“Shut up, noob,” she muttered, and incinerated him.
Too many people brought their own archaic, human virtual reality along, their bigot eyes older than computers or even electricity, filtering their reality into dark and angry and hateful visions, along into Gameworld with them.
She took flight, cloak streaming behind her, a comet tail of deep and simmering reds. Beyond rivers and woods and foothills she found familiar mountains, the dungeon crawl she’d had her eye on all week.
On the way she passed over a party trekking on foot. She landed at the dungeon entrance ahead of them.
“You can’t do that one alone, dumb c___,” one of them called from the valley below.
“You that hot in real life?” Another shouted. “Send me a nude. You can suck my d___, baby.”
Jillian sighed again and entered the dungeon. The great iron door slammed shut, cutting off the party of trolls. The monsters inside would try to kill her, of course, but virtual monsters were monsters and that’s what they were supposed to do. They wouldn’t call out obscenities for the censor to block. They were all game, no hate. Not like the real monsters.
Jillian smiled, shut in alone with the virtual, reality locked out behind her.