Not a Hater - but Mighty Disgusted

A few months before the last election, somebody responded to something I had written by asking me if I was a ‘Trump Hater’.  I told him that was wrong on two levels; first, I don’t hate – it’s not in my constitution.  At least as importantly though, is that there was nothing about The Donald that merited my defining myself in any way by my opinion of him.  He was simply too insignificant to be part of my identity.  I don’t identify as an Andrew Dice Clay hater just because I don’t like him and think he’s creepy.  I just don’t seek him out.  

I don’t read gossip magazines, and don’t view those mind-sucking fake-ass primetime game shows, so I only knew of The Donald from his serial marriages to, infidelities against, and divorces from attractive, but vacuous fashion models, and his repeated overreaching self-aggrandizing real-estate projects – many of which ended in bankruptcy for his investors.  

Now this sad, strange man, with a lot of money, was choosing to run for President as a vanity exercise.  It was no more significant than if Paris Hilton were running … it was just a joke.  

As stunning as it is that—despite his lack of anything resembling the slightest qualifications, and his very public track record—enough voters favored him to let him move in to the White House, he has not advanced in my estimation, or that of other thinking people.  His elevation is just another manifestation of the dysfunctionality of our nation’s system.  I don’t blame him to taking a shot; he has an obvious narcissistic personality disorder, and couldn’t pass up the opportunity.  Now  in office, he has quickly become the infected, abscessed pimple on the ass of the American body politic, but it’s not his fault; he is just the surface symptom of the underlying infection.  Unless that infection is remedied, the next abscess will be just as gross as this one.