• author
    • Debra DeAngelo

      CEO, Columnist and Co-Editor
    • June 16, 2017 in Columnists

    Feeling the pain and writing about it anyway

    Remember my word contest awhile back, and the winner was “trumpled”? (Thanks again, Lena and Alicia!) I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling completely trumpled these days. The White House has become a lawn sprinkler, spraying new and improved catastrophes in every direction every single day. Trying to keep track of Trump’s social, international and environmental transgressions is like trying to swat angry bees away when you’re surrounded by a swarm.

    Run! That’s your only hope! But — to where? Where’s the safe room where we can hide until the disaster passes?

    To this day, I still have moments where I think, “This isn’t really happening. This buffoon can’t really be our president. It’s not possible. How high am I, anyway?

    Or maybe it’s all my own personal nightmare, and I’ll wake up, and Trump will still be the king of crap TV and easily avoided with a flick of the TV remote.

    OK, alarm clock… do your thing. “Now” would be really good.

    But no buzzer ever sounds. No sober moment comes. This is reality: A sociopathic narcissist with obviously increasing dementia is our president.

    How did this happen.

    Oh yes.

    People CHOSE this.

    Some have wised up, but much to my sheer astonishment, there are still diehard Trumpsters who stubbornly pledge their loyalty to King Baby. Thankfully, their numbers are steadily declining. We’re getting down to the dregs, which fall into three camps.

    The first camp is the “thinky pain” peeps. Cerebral activity is as painful as doing 100 sit-ups would be for a couch potato: I don’t wanna! It hurts! They prefer to be told what to do, think, and say by an authority figure, particularly if that person validates their fears, anxieties and anger, and emboldens them to vocalize those ugly emotions, as well as vilify anyone with a different viewpoint. They parrot whatever tasty nonsense is spoonfed to them, particularly if it fits on a red baseball cap.

    The second camp is the “I got mine” folks. They understand what’s going on, but they’re financially well off and intrinsically stingy. One of their core beliefs is that those who aren’t as well off simply aren’t working hard enough. Most “I got mine” types grew up white and privileged, and not only have they not experienced the daily obstacles faced by people of color themselves, they don’t even know many people who have. They insulate themselves with others of like mind and experience: If all of us feel this way, it must be valid.

    The third camp, the “What’s in it for me” crowd, is a derivative of the second: Congressional Republicans. They have one singular motivation in life: Reelection. Despite Trump’s tanking popularity, they’re reluctant to object to any of the nonsense the Toddler in Chief babbles because they fear it’ll damage their reelection campaigns. Period. I’ve never been much impressed with Congressional Republicans, but under this administration, they’ve sunk to a new low; a shocking dearth of integrity, let alone love of country.

    National disgrace and withering humiliation aside, this is a columnist’s cornucopia, yes? Fat times to be in the opinion business, right? In theory, yes. But it’s turned a corner. It’s not fun anymore. I’m about as burned out as I could be from the daily dose of rapid-fire sur-reality. Just the sight or sound of that orange human caricature triggers a swell of rage and despair. I don’t like thinking about Trump, let alone writing about him. This topic only bubbles up when columnistic integrity prevents me from keeping my mouth shut for one moment longer, and it’s agony… like digging your fingernails into your own wound.

    Know what? I’d give anything to have George W. Bush back. Seriously. And if you’ve been with me for awhile, you know I’m no fan of The Dub. But given the choice between Uncurious George and Trumplethinkskin, I’d kiss the ground Bush walks on to have him back right about now.

    Even Cheney would be preferable to Trump.

    Good God.

    I typed that without even flinching.

    Yes, it’s come to this. Even the guy who triggers “Sympathy For the Devil” on the soundtrack in my head whenever he appears would be preferable. Cheney gets the nod as the lesser of two evils, because at least he’s intelligent, albeit in a cold-blooded, calculating, reptilian way. Trump, not so much. His brand of evil is merely transparently narcissistic. He’s about as intelligent as a C-minus third grader, which is fine when you’re 9 years old… not so much when you’re 71 and the leader of the free world. (Well, ex-leader. Angela Merkel can claim that title now, by default.)

    Let’s face it. Trump speaks, and behaves, like a spoiled child. He humiliates the country every time he opens his mouth or tweets. His rebuttals to any sort of criticism are the intellectual equivalent of “I know you are, but what am I” and “You’re ugly and your mother dresses you funny.”

    I’m ashamed of Trump.

    Deeply.

    Disgusted by him.

    Thoroughly.

    When he speaks, the disgust I feel would be the same if he walked on stage, dropped his pants and took a huge dump on the American flag. Which is what he does figuratively already, except the feces fall from his mouth.

    How much longer must we endure this nightmare? Is there not one member of Congress with the backbone to get the impeachment effort rolling? Will Robert Mueller pull the crucial thread and unravel this detestable fabric in which we’re entangled? Let’s hope. The image of Trump being led away in handcuffs is like oxygen to me. But just in case Trump wiggles out of his Russian entanglements like the slimy snake he is, we must stifle our collective gag reflex and focus on the 2018 midterm election. We’ll still be stuck with King Baby for two more years, but a Democratic majority could keep him contained in his playpen so he can’t do any more damage.

    Landslide, people.

    Think landslide.


      • Maya Spier Stiles North

      • June 16, 2017 at 7:33 pm
      • Reply

      Every single thing you said. Every. Single. Thing. I have C-PTSD and I have been triggered since he won the primary and I woke up to the danger. One of my challenges is not to literally blast all the liberals who could not stop spewing about Hillary after the primaries. The intrinsic Trumplodytes — well, they have deficiencies that are hard to remedy (the unwillingness to think, being a major one). But the intelligentsia who caterwauled infinitely about how impure was her philosophy when they KNEW what was lurking — forgiveness for that is slow to come.

      I continue to hope for group myocardial infarctions for the evil gang of four and their varied rotting minions.Seeing them all hauled away in chains would also satisfy.

      As for that damned orange colostomy bag — my wish for him is to be forgotten. To die in ignominious oblivion, of no importance to anybody at all ever again.


      • Terri Connett

      • June 22, 2017 at 1:07 pm
      • Reply

      I feel you, sister. Every single word. Best line of many, “…like digging your fingernails into your own wound.” That best describes how I feel now as I wrench out a column about the Philando Castile verdict. 🙁



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