Donald Trump runs the government the way a blind-folded four-year-old approaches a pinata: disoriented, directionless, flailing.
Ignorant and empty-souled, Trump careens from crisis to crisis, each day a new episode in the melodrama in which he stars as both villain and hollow hero before a crush of complicit journalists.
How many hours of exposure have the cable networks, where so many tune in to check out the news, donated to the occupant of the White House in those south lawn scrums? How much of it is newsworthy? Informed? Accurate? How many of you, like me, have nearly worn out your mute button?
Since so much of what Trump says is untrue and since the commentators will analyze, condense, report what he said ad nauseum, and eventually label it fact or fiction, I no longer waste my time listening to his false claims and rambling ruminations. … Frankly, I can no longer stand the raspy voice, the chin in the air, the crossed arms, the inane posturing, the churlish childishness of it all.
And the trotting out of his prize collection of American sycophants to sing his praises? Oh, my! I’m not sure I have the words. Why not just play a recording of The Hallelujah Chorus? We could all sing along.
Back to those hapless reporters on the south lawn, however. I realize they collect there because it’s the one place they get a glimpse into the tumult behind those pristine white walls. Relishing the chaotic back and forth with reporters he claims to hate, Trump babbles on, and there’s the occasional newsworthy nugget.
But just once, I’d like to see Trump getting the attention he deserves—trudging towards the helicopter, alone—while the news networks, with truly pressing business to cover, train their cameras on three or four steps of Trump’s lonely trudge, then immediately turn their cameras to compelling concerns …
Imagine the scene: Trump trudging away as, voice-over, a commentator says, “Meanwhile, as Trump departs for a golfing weekend at Mar-a-Lago, we take you now to …
(Fill in the blanks above.)
We’ve heard it said over and over again: “This is not who we are.”
In that case, who are we? And how would anyone know?