I just can’t even Trump
Do you ever can’t even?
Me, I can’t even all the time. Like today.
I just cannot.
If you’re not following, google “39 Renaissance Babies Who Can’t Even” and scroll down. By the time you get to the “baby who just cannot with this naked lady throwing coins at him,” you will.
I can’t even world right now. (Terrorism, Brexit, climate change.)
I can’t even country. (Trump. Period.)
I can’t even state. (Releasing water from Folsom Lake rather than storing it because, hey, the drought’s over! And yes, it’s really the federal government’s fault, but the state isn’t pushing back.)
I can’t even county. (Yes, the car-crunching County Road 31 potholes are patched again… how about sucking it up and actually fixing the road properly?)
I can’t even city. (Still looking the other way while the Solano County Water Agency has its way with Putah Creek, our town’s most valuable asset.)
I can’t even house. (I’m not cleaning it. Not today. Maybe not tomorrow either.)
I can’t even me. (Twisted my knee opening a window, rather than something really sexy like rock climbing or pole dancing, and am sporting a big black knee brace, and I just don’t even have time for this crap.)
Honestly, I can’t even write right now, but I’m doing it anyway because that’s what separates the professionals from the bloggers: Writing when you feel like it is simple; writing when you don’t want to takes chops.
The main source of my can’t evenness is that I’m becoming Trump-weary. Not just of that omnipresent Cheeto-faced, ferret-wearing shitgibbon himself (one of the many wonderfully colorful descriptions thrown at him by the Scottish — google that too, for a good chuckle), but the concentric ripples of selfishness, prejudice, misinformation and outright stupidity radiating around him. Roughly half of the U.S. population applauds ignorance and inexperience with gusto, and is blissfully unbothered by blatant racism and sexism, particularly when spewed by someone with the vocabulary and worldliness of an average 9-year-old.
God Bless ‘Murica!
People keep saying he’ll never get elected. Look to Brexit, people. If it can happen there, it can happen here, with far more disastrous results. Brexit was fueled by xenophobia and an inexplicable urge to upheave the government “just because we can” — the very same roots of Trump’s popularity.
The two most revealing facts, post-Brexit, about how easily people can be coerced into doing something outrageous without any thought of the consequences are 1) the surge in web searches for “What is the EU” in the U.K., followed by 2) more than two million British citizens who signed a petition demanding a “do over” on the Brexit vote — which means more than two million people had no idea what they were voting for — they just wanted to give a big middle finger to the status quo as well as anyone with a non-native accent and skin darker than a manila folder.
The actual possibility of “President Trump” is first and foremost of my can’t evenness, like kryptonite sapping my superhuman powers of optimism and hope, because so much else hinges on that: Our ability to fight terrorism and slow climate change (both of which require global cooperation, and “cooperation” isn’t amongst Trump’s working skills), the ability of the federal government to recognize that antiquated rules about water storage and flow must be updated to compensate for the new normal in California: drought (Trump has declared California’s drought “over”), or the federal government’s willingness to pump some funding into infrastructure and road repair (President Trump won’t be much concerned with little old County Road 31, what with that big old wall to build), or reviewing federal grants to see if projects are actually necessary or merely a way to perpetually line the pockets of those receiving grant money (perpetually lining pockets without justification summarizes Trump’s entire resume).
The other side of the Can’t Even Trump coin is the astounding level of vitriol and irrational hatred of Hillary Clinton. Go ahead and pick your favorite Hillary-hater and ask him/her to offer a specific reason for their ire, and the first two answers don’t count (Benghazi and email). Also, anything her husband did doesn’t count because… (do I really need to break it down)… those are things he did, for which Hillary was not responsible.
On occasion, I hear younger women declare Hillary misogynistic because — get this — she was unsupportive of the women her husband had affairs with.
You know that “yie-diddy-yie-diddy-yie” sound cartoon characters make when they shake their heads in addled astonishment? That.
Show me the woman who reaches out to the younger, prettier gal who’s been sliding the sheets with her husband… who extends great compassion and support to her.
Should that one such woman step forward — turn in your ovaries, Madam. You betray your gender. It’s female nature to despise the “other woman” at first, until you’ve mentally worked through the equation and realized it was your spouse who betrayed you, not Little Miss Hottiepants. The normal response at that point is to make a beeline for the divorce lawyer — not become BFFs with your husband’s lover.
Hillary, on the other hand, was cast-iron stoic under the weight of troubles that would crush you or me, and all under intense public scrutiny and relentless vilification. In other words, rather than ditch her marriage, she worked it out. You’d think Hillary would be the poster child for the family values camp, but no.
Jesus, of course, is a Republican, and you don’t get into heaven holding a “D” card. Clearly, the choice for all God-fearing, uber-conservative, family values types is to support the guy who trades in his wives like used cars, calls women dogs and pigs, and tells others that they’d look great on their knees. And — this additionally bothers the “Hillary is a misogynist” gals not one bit.
I can’t even.
I just really cannot.
And stop throwing coins at me, you naked tart.