America’s Biggest Loser Bites Himself on the Ass (While His Head Is All Up Inside There)
Jesus Fucking Christ, we deserve so much better than this senile, greedy, self-centered fucking pile of stinking Trump shit.
Donald Trump walked into the Oval Office Thursday evening intending to exhume the 2020 election one more time. Instead, he accidentally performed an autopsy on his own presidency. The worst ever, by the way.
The premise of the speech was breathtakingly stupid. According to the pervert, child-molesting President of the United States, America has spent the past six years staggering beneath the weight of a stolen election so monstrous that it continues threatening the Republic to this very day.
Yet the same constitutional machinery he described as hopelessly compromised is apparently trustworthy enough to conduct the next election—provided he acquires considerably more authority over it. That’s less a governing philosophy than a dog chasing its own stinky ass. This fucking doofus is insane.
The speech wasn’t really about 2020. It wasn’t even about election security. It was about Donald Fucking Trump. Everything else—the solemn references to China, the thick binders of “newly declassified intelligence,” the promise that hidden truths had finally emerged from beneath mountains of secrecy—was mere set decoration. The star of the evening was one blithering idiot’s inability to stop arguing with history.
Most presidents spend their second terms talking about the future. Roosevelt talked about rebuilding the economy. Eisenhower built highways. Kennedy talked about the Moon. Reagan talked about the Soviet Union’s decline. Obama talked about health care. Even presidents with mediocre records generally try to leave behind monuments, legislation, alliances or economic achievements. Donald Trump, meanwhile, keeps returning to a single day in November of 2020 the way Captain Ahab kept returning to one particular whale.
There are politicians who nurse grudges, and there are politicians who rewrite history. Then there’s a president who, six years after the event, devoted a nationally televised address to convincing Americans that the central fact of modern political life isn’t inflation, housing, health care, artificial intelligence, climate disruption, China, Russia, crumbling infrastructure or the exploding national debt. It’s him.
The truly remarkable part isn’t that Donald Trump disputes the outcome of the 2020 election. Politicians have contested elections throughout history. The remarkable part is that he appears unable to leave it behind. One needn’t speculate about a psychiatric diagnoses to recognize an extraordinary fixation. Public figures sometimes become so invested in a particular story about themselves that every subsequent event must be bent back toward protecting it. The story ceases to explain reality; reality is required to explain the story.
That’s the trap. Once your self-image depends upon never having legitimately lost, every contrary fact becomes intolerable. Court decisions become suspect. Election officials become suspect. Career civil servants become suspect. Journalists become suspect. Historians become suspect. The electoral system itself becomes suspect. Eventually objective reality is treated less as evidence than as an employee with a poor attitude who ought to be fired.
Thursday night’s address illustrated that progression almost perfectly. The advertised blockbuster was another collection of declassified intelligence, presented with all the theatrical gravity of Moses descending from Sinai carrying tablets instead of PDFs. Yet once again the audience was informed that decisive proof exists just beyond the horizon—in the next release, the next hearing, the next revelation, the next investigation. It’s conspiracy theory’s equivalent of nuclear fusion. Commercial success has always been about 20 years away.
Notice how elegantly the trick works. If the past never ends, neither does the emergency. If the emergency never ends, extraordinary powers begin looking perfectly ordinary. If every inconvenient election remains an active crime scene forever, every future election requires extraordinary supervision before a single ballot has been cast. Yesterday quietly becomes tomorrow’s permission slip.
That’s what Thursday night’s speech was really selling. Not history. Power.
This is one of civilization’s oldest political rackets. Every ruler tempted by greater authority eventually discovers that reality contains inconvenient objects—judges, auditors, historians, journalists, elections and arithmetic itself. The answer isn’t to improve reality. The answer is to declare reality corrupted. History’s been hacked. Arithmetic’s been politicized. Only one uniquely gifted individual possesses the mystical ability to decipher the hidden truth concealed beneath mountains of court rulings, audits, recounts, investigations and plain, old observable fact.
It’s a magnificent business model. Every failure proves sabotage. Every defeat proves victory. Every criticism proves conspiracy. Every absence of evidence becomes evidence of a deeper conspiracy. Sherlock Holmes would’ve retired in disgust.
Meanwhile, the actual country waits outside like an abandoned Uber passenger. Roads continue crumbling. Young families continue discovering the American Dream now requires venture-capital financing. Medical bills continue arriving with the casual optimism of ransom notes. Insurance companies continue pricing chemotherapy as though it includes complimentary champagne and snorkeling. The climate continues displaying a stubborn refusal to check polling data before setting new temperature records. Yet another evening of national attention vanished into an archaeological dig through one fat fuck moron’s wounded pride.
Perhaps that’s the deepest irony of all. History may remember Thursday night’s address not because it revealed anything genuinely new about the 2020 election, but because it revealed something painfully familiar about Donald Trump. Great leaders eventually persuade themselves they embody the nation. Less fortunate ones begin persuading themselves the nation exists to repair their wounded ego.
There comes a point where narcissism ceases to be merely a personality disorder and becomes a governing principle. Every institution exists to validate the leader. Every investigation exists to vindicate him. Every criticism becomes betrayal. Every election that fails to produce the proper emotional outcome remains unfinished until reality itself finally surrenders. Whether one views that primarily as political strategy, personal psychology, or a combination of both, the effect on public life is the same: the nation’s institutions become supporting actors in one creepy jerk’s endless argument with the past.
That’s the truly unsettling part. Not because it proves anything new about the election, but because it demonstrates what can happen when one leader’s grievance gradually colonizes the business of governing. Instead of confronting the country’s present challenges, the government becomes trapped litigating the emotional needs of its chief executive.
Empires rarely die because they stop telling stories. They die because one idiot’s story eventually becomes more important than everyone else’s reality.
Donald Trump stood behind a presidential podium Thursday evening intending to persuade America that history had betrayed him. Instead, he demonstrated something altogether different. He showed what happens when a leader becomes trapped inside his own mythology, until every speech circles back to the same wound and every policy is expected to salve it. Then, in one of the great moments of unintended political slapstick, he bit himself squarely on the ass—and the yelp echoed far louder than the evidence.
It’s time to put an end to this senile, greedy, self-centered fucking pile of stinking Trump shit. And the repugnant little monsters who lick his filthy balls, too.
