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Ever Thus to Dimwits

 

I’m lucky enough to have friends and a mother who suffer my theories, although I have no idea how gladly.

There’s the Lift-and-Separate Theory of technology.

The God-as-Deadbeat-Dad Theory of religion.

And, of course, the Great Race War Theory of politics: the hypothesis that racial tensions can be quantifiably measured — so, to some degree, predicted — by the racial makeup of the nation as compared to the racial makeup of the nation’s Top 500 executives. And you’ll get a rough (ever sliding) compass reading of our place on the Great Race War scale.

The good news: That theory is out the window.

The bad news: The Great Race War will start much simpler: with a quarter-inch bullet from a Trump supporter.

Trump made the suggestion as he does most: on Twitter and out his ass.
He offered, without proof, that the former president was personally responsible for bugging and trying trying to derail his campaign.

And with that, Trump’s lunatic base suddenly has a legitimate reason (in what substitutes as their eyes) to applaud assassinations.

Trump cast himself as a Jesus figure in the second presidential debate, offering to “take the arrows” from his opponent in a crusade to resurrect the nation. Does anyone doubt a zealot would sacrifice his life (and others) to protect the political Chosen One?

And there’s little evidence Trump would want to prevent one, even if he could. Consider the only two real acts he’s taken in the infancy of his presidency: a Muslim ban rand a $50 billion budget increase for the Defense Department, the nation’s largest police force. All we’d need is a shovel to entrench ourselves deeper.

The president is awfully fond of laying guilt at the feet of his anger; Remember his ‘Blame a federal judge if we suffer a terrorism attack?’

So be it, Mr. President. Take it from an old newsman who knows how a paper is laid on a doorstep.

Here’s the latest issue of Blame,Mr. President. Delivered to your door.

The Golden Shower Lining of a DysTrumpian Future

 

Ok, so the past 18 months have been tough for liberals, Democrats, women, minorities, homosexuals, immigrants, the environment, the press and, in an overarching sense,  intellectualism itself.

But there’s an upside to the past year and a half. Consider what has flourished under the New World Order:

Sports. It has been an unreal stretch for all things athletic. The Liecester City Foxes were a 5,000-to-1 shot to win the Premier League soccer championships. But the little town from East Midlands, UK emptied the safes of dozens of booking houses, even prompting a ban on odds that long in soccer matches. The Cleveland Cavaliers came back from 3-1 in the NBA Finals to bring an impossible championship to the city. Then Chicago did them  one better, ending a century-long curse to win the World Series. The Clemson Tigers shocked ESPN’s talking heads by upsetting Alabama for the college football championship. Roger Federer and Serena Williams both claimed record Gran Slam titles at the Australian Open — at 35 years old. That’s the qualifying age to play in tennis’ senior circuit. Even the Super Bowl was supposed to be super, though I did not watch. The Patriots’ victory seemed, in retrospect, as inevitable as Trump’s, and I can’t stand victorious villains.

Chaihe Comedy. For eight years, comedians had to limit their schticks to lambasting the GOP (Barack Obama was simply too quick to satirize). Now, though, the reins are off, and we’re seeing late-night comedians feasting on a neophyte administration that must look like buzzard snacks. Samantha Bee, Stephen Colbert, John Oliver, Bill Maher and, most surprisingly, Seth Myers have not only struck a resonant funny bone; they’ve effectively taken over participatory journalism from the participatory journalists. Of course, the Donald helps them out: Reacting angrily to a New York Times story that the president putters around the White House in his bathrobe, he had had Sean Spicer shoot down the story by claiming Donald doesn’t even own a bathrobe, perhaps a presidential first. Alec Baldwin has created his most memorable role since Glengarry Glen Ross with his Trump imitation on SNL, which is enjoying its highest ratings in a quarter century. The key to his act? He says he simply “Reads the guy’s tweets back.”

Activism. I come from a generation whose idea of conspiracy was who shot J.R. But today I see my friends marching, debating, engaging over topics they rarely broached. Of course, that’s no guarantee of change. But it’s a lot more promising sign than a protest hashtag.

So cheer up, Bill Maher (the guy really looks like he lost his mother): Assuming we don’t have to hunt or own food or learn how to make a lean-to in a nuclear winter, the next four years could be a hoot.