Maybe it’s just petty professional jealousy, but I’m feeling left out.
I know, I’m only an insignificant small-town newspaper editor in a rural, out-of-the-way corner of the country, plodding away at chronicling local news and events. A media nobody.
Meanwhile, my big-city, big-newspaper, big-network and big-website journalism colleagues are having the time of their lives following Republican presidential nominee Donald Trump around, incurring his sputtering wrath as they try to elicit intelligible answers to legitimate questions. Trump regards any query from any quarter — friend, foe or former-friend-soon-to-be-foe — as an unwarranted personal assault. He thinks all journalists are bad people writing bad things using fancy-schmancy polysyllabic words, and the worst of his rabid, spittle-laced invective is often spewed at the news media.
I’m missing out on all of that, and I think it’s time I got involved before Trump spirals completely out of control and whirligigs himself into a molten pile of cheese-colored toxic waste.
I want to be banned.
I want Trump to prohibit me from covering any of his events and direct his brown-shirts-and-jackboots security thugs to rough me up and toss me out if I try to get anywhere near him with notepad and pen. Trump’s already done it to several other news organizations, notably the Washington Post, and was contemplating banning the New York Times this week. It doesn’t seem to take much. The simple provocation of questioning Trump’s voluminous lies, paranoid delusions, lunatic pronouncements and venom-laced character assassinations is enough to get you black-listed from the red meat political circuit. Humbly suggesting that Trump’s “facts” don’t align with any known reality will get you sent packing.
So we can just cut to the chase, I think. No need to point out that Trump is a racist, sexist, xenophobic, hate-mongering, fear-stoking Frankenstein monster of a candidate with no legitimate qualifications, political, moral or human, to run for president. Everyone already knows that.
Of course, it’s common knowledge that Trump is a thin-skinned crybaby with the temperament of an infant in a sandbox who needs to whack all his playmates with his little plastic shovel. It doesn’t bear repeating that such a whiny wimp is a poor choice to lead the world’s most powerful nation.
Trump has, we all would agree, demonstrated time again that he is not only woefully ignorant of American law, foreign policy, political history, world geography (make that U.S. geography too, since he mis-located the Democratic vice-presidential candidate), but also has no interest in learning because he already knows enough to be the single person who can solve all our problems.
It was evident months ago that Trump is working straight from the aspiring dictator’s playbook for riling up the populace with phony issues, turning people against each other, promoting violence and laying the groundwork for authoritarian rule. Why even bring it up? And it hardly merits a moment’s time to acknowledge that Trump’s models for leadership are all murderous, power-crazed megalomaniacs, or that his smoochy bromance with that Kremlin cutie Vladimir Putin is a threat to world order.
I suppose we don’t really need to mention that Trump’s self-obsessed grandiosity is giving narcissism a bad name, or that pathological liars everywhere bow down in awe at his epic dishonesty. It’s enough that Trump’s litigation-drenched business dealings have been starkly exposed as a string of failures, frauds, bankruptcies and broken agreements without belaboring the point, right?
Nope, we don’t have to go over all that familiar ground, especially since it is littered with stuff we don’t want to get on our shoes.
So bring it on, Mr. Trump. Call me a loser, denigrate my heritage (Irish/Swedish immigrants, Catholic upbringing), blow me up with one of your not-even-remotely-within-range-of-basic-literacy tweets. C’mon, you know you have to — you can’t resist. You must respond to every slight, real or imagined. Make me famous! It won’t take but a minute, and then I’m another grease spot on your deep-pile carpet. I’ll be a mere 10-second blip before you unleash another projectile vomitus of abuse on someone else while your mouth-breathing horde of social media trolls mop up after you. Easy-peasy. You can do it. Trust me, it’ll be great.
You know what, forget it. I was just being sarcastic.