No grace, no dignity, no humility, no magnanimity, no class, no morals, no empathy, no soul.
He has no friends, not even a dog.
His wife can’t bear his touch, his daughter can’t avoid it.
Devoid
of humour he doesn’t make jokes, he doesn’t laugh. Not ever. An
occasional dismal rictus, a necrotic gash in his ochre-lacquered
face-bladder signifies nothing more than his satisfaction in transacting
another con.
He’s a loathsome coagulation of every human failing with no compensating virtues.
A craven coward.
A sociopath.
A serial rapist.
A racist.
A quisling.
An opportunistic grifter.
An inveterate cheat.
A deceitful toad.
A chronic liar.
A shameless braggart.
An ignoramus who lacks curiosity. He doesn’t read, he doesn’t care.
Trump
is a ridiculous, combed-over cartoon villain, a deranged clown with a
face sprayed the colour of hang-over piss and toilet paper stuck to his
shoe whose wits are defeated by an open umbrella. Rake the forests, nuke
the hurricanes, inject the bleach, waterbomb Notre Dame cathedral,
trade Greenland for Puerto Rico. Trump’s pompous idiocies are exceeded
only by his appalling ignorance.
Crediting
the British with the foresight to build airstrips in the war of
independence 110 years before the Wright Brothers first took flight,
revealing the hitherto unknown Himalayan countries of Nipple and Button,
accusing Baltic leaders of starting Balkans wars! This clueless buffoon
brags that he was able to keep the crayon inside the lines on his
dementia test. Accusing Trump of a lack of self-awareness is like
accusing Myra Hindley of poor child care standards.
The
Grand Fubar of dysfunction, the maestro of petty vindictiveness, of
malice and resentful belligerence is testing coup options yet America
flatters itself as being “the world’s greatest democracy” much to the
bemusement of observers here in Oz. It’s beyond our imagining that we’d
ever have a bloated braggart, a liar, a hypocrite, a lazy shirker, a
crony-stacking blame shifter at the helm filtering Murdoch’s kidney
stones through his teeth while monetising a pandemic for the benefit of
rich mates. Oh… what?
Trump,
if he’d had the imagination, would’ve considered handing out small-pox
infected blankets in Democrat-leaning districts but it’s too late now. A
majority of Americans have said enough is enough. After 4 years of
what-the-fuck-has-he-done-now, 46,123 tweets and 20,000 documented lies while in office to 9th July 2020
he’s been reduced to pathetic whimperings from his puckered-sphincter
pout, playing his invisible accordion to an audience of gormless
dullards, fellow hucksters and his retinue of fawning toadies, thralls,
invertebrate lickspittles and hangers-on whose fealty is demanded but
never reciprocated and who had neither the self-respect nor the courage
to call out the capture of the US by an amoral, moronic lunatic.
We cannot know what tipped the scales against Trump.
No
lie has been too outrageous, bragging about sexual assault was just
locker-room talk, five bankruptcies are apparently indicative of an
astute businessman, stealing from a children’s cancer charity is fake
news. Being laughed at by foreign leaders – meh, because y’all –
“Merica!” Throwing meat to Boogaloos, Proud Boys, Klansmen and Call Of
Duty cos-players was addressing his base. Perhaps it was inciting
violence from uniformed goon squads spooled onto lawful BLM protesters
that crossed the line. Perhaps it was the denigration of war dead and
veterans as losers and suckers by a draft-dodging, yellow, mangy dog
that did it.
More
likely it was 11 million Covid-infected Americans, a quarter of a
million who died while the orange blobulator ignored it, denied it,
played it down, finger-pointed and then looked for ways to exploit it
for his own advantage.
There
is no excusing Trump, there is no sympathy that should be wasted on
this pathetic parasite. History should not record him as some sort of
tragic King Lear but as an effluvium, a discharge from the bowels of a
diseased system; a funk that has now been sharted.
He
had always exhibited the narcissistic and antisocial personality
disorders of a lack of empathy, grandiosity, lying and deceit,
indifference to conventional laws or rules or morality that characterise
a despot. But he possessed none of the cunning, artifice, commitment to
a cause beyond himself, the political skills of a Stalin or the oratory
of a Mussolini. He had no ambition beyond the grift and the trappings –
palaces awash with potentate kitsch, a yearning for military parades, a
pneumatic wife and his narcissistic cult of personality. He has no
talent beyond the con, he’s a schmuck with the dumb luck to be born into
wealth that mestasised B-grade celebrity into A-grade larceny.
Fittingly, he’s spending his last days shaping his own humiliation. It’s an Armando Iannucci
script playing out in real life. If Trump was to be found drooling in a
pool of his own piss ala Stalin or dragged Sadam-like from his
bolt-hole it would be the most metaphorically noteworthy achievement of
his time in office.
Gone
too will be his dreadful spawn. Ivanka’s in-it-up-to-her-nose-job
reputation may limit her future career prospects to hand-job supervisor
at a New York sperm bank while Uday and Qusay* could end up in Ryker’s
Island trading sexual favours for lines.
Jared
Kushner may get a gig at a Madame Tussaud exhibit of automatronic rent
boys. Melania, no doubt, would enjoy the embrace of a Justin Trudeau
look-alike cabana boy, chuckling at the thought that Trump has only Rudi
Guiliani left to go through the pre-nup looking for loopholes.
The end of America’s nightmare is near. However it plays out over the next two months Trump is finished.
The irrelevant man.
A loser.
