Wall's Wall That Ends Wall

Wall's Wall That Ends Wall

By Peter Kremidas

There’s a possibility that, decades or centuries from now, Donald Trump will be seen as a tragic character. The idiot king. With his self-importance built on the same empty foundation in a way that typified so many of the ignorant at the time. A total phony put in charge of a nation whose entire economy was based on infinite growth, and existed on a planet with finite resources. This muppet baby with a blank checkbook given the keys to the car right before climate change got really angry. They were so stupid. He was so stupid. They just didn’t know any better.

He’s just the appearance of strength that, as certain pairs of eyes can see, is actually true terror. Of being seen. If history is stories passed down, try and imagine a more intense Shakespearean level of tragedy than being this man’s terrified little mind, knowing full well, deep down, that he simply is not good enough for this job. Imagine being this fraud, lying to yourself that you can handle this, feeling the truth trying to worm itself out from inside your bones like little screws, as you get your first presidential intelligence briefing, the one where they really draw the curtain back for you and lay it on the table. Imagine the brow cracking concentration it takes to repeat over and over, while being shown the full breadth of presidential responsibilities for the first time, that you’ve got this, knowing full well that most certainly do not. Imagine drowning while convincing yourself you’re still treading water.

Also, Vladimir Putin’s got you under his thumb. And firmly.

It’s no wonder he cracked.

Like I said, tragic.

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Now don’t get me wrong, fuck him. Fuck him in the air upside down at a busy intersection. Jail away the lock and throw the keys into a hole inside another hole. All I’m saying is that this is clearly not a man with enough healthy mental faculties to know any better. Sane men don’t brag about how big the Chinese think their brain is. Men without paranoid delusions don’t call for the federal investigation of a television network on suspicion of a criminal conspiracy to undermine him.

Now, it’s important to slow down and take this in for a second. Donald Trump, in his own words, literally does not believe that the these were mere jokes broadcast on NBC. No, The President of the United States believes that there is a cabal of haters, probably including Hillary Clinton. He believes they are convincing Saturday Night Live writers to make fun of him, in order to, presumably, drive down his poll numbers. It does not occur to him that maybe it just makes for attractive television.

Imagine the amount of paranoia it takes to believe something like that. Imagine seeing monsters behind every curtain. Imagine also living in a house fucking full of curtains.

And, deep down, he knows it. He knows he isn’t smart. He can clearly see that he doesn’t know what the cock anybody’s talking to him about. Even if he doesn’t know he knows it, he does. It’s why he tries so hard. One of the things about people is, if you watch how we defend ourselves long enough you can see what we’re defending. So, if you don’t believe me about the state of this man’s mind, watch how he plays defense when criticized. Tell me he isn’t desperate to always appear as if he is the strongest man in the room.

And He’s so completely in over his head, and he’s too dumb and dishonest with himself to realize it.

Tragedy.

The sad story of a man with a hole the size of an American presidential legacy in his heart. His failed legacy a fake problem solved incorrectly. All that time spent, in this time of great need, watching this idiot keep digging himself deeper and deeper into a coal mine-deep hole, desperate to avoid admitting he knows he fucked up.

Imagine living with the consequences were too damn dumb to see coming.

Before Donald Trump took office, Barack Obama, in his sometimes annoyingly infinite patience and grace, called publicly for a peaceful transition. Because Barack Obama doesn’t give a shit about winning a pissing contest with some TV character. He knows the guy’s a clown. He also knows that this dumb douchebag has not one whit of a fuck of what he just got himself into.

And so, in the final days of his presidency, this man, after eight uninterrupted years of being asked repeatedly, by a sneering opposition, “Is this all really worth it?,” he put his head down, thought for the billionth time about how he could really use a cigarette right now, and responded, “Of course.”

He shows Don the ropes. Gives him the inside scoop on the job. Helps him out a bit.

I believe that Barack Obama did this for many reasons. I believe that one of them was out of pity.

And I call that tragedy.

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