I’m not sure, no matter how much people attempt to explain it, that I will ever understand the phenomenon of trumpism. It has led me to believe that the human species is actually comprised of more than one sub-species, for trumpists live in a world that I cannot comprehend. Our friend Jerry over at On the Fence Voters, who has friends among the trumpists, writes a bit about his friends, and concludes with a warning of what we must do. Jerry is a better person than I, for I can no longer count the trumpists as friends. Thank you, Jerry, for sharing!
Hal, Mitch, and Greg (all pseudonyms for real people I know) were, are, and probably always will be true-red Donald Trump fans. If any of them saw The Orange Assassin holding a gun and casting furtive glances around Fifth Avenue (not that any of them are likely to ever visit America’s biggest, bluest city), they’d very likely offer to go buy him more ammunition. They’re all—normally—good men. But, like so many Trumpists, they check their reason and compassion at the door when they enter Trumpsylvania. Their hero’s cape can be crusted in chicken manure, but they still see it as pristine.
So when the man who boasts of his “total authority” fails virtually every exam and pop quiz in his first real crisis as president, they find others to blame. Messiahs don’t make mistakes. Not even when the homecoming chickens are roosting—and pooping—on his adoring disciples’ shoulders.
Hal, Mitch, and…
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