Slouching toward Trump
OK, a month has passed since the shock/stun/bum trip of Orange Tuesday, and the overall mood now seems to have calmed a bit. Or am I just fooling myself?
Nah, it’s real, to some degree, for a couple reasons. One is that us Hillarians now remember, after an admittedly jagged couple of weeks, that Trump, like all presidents, must contend with that raging pisser of a CF called Congress. And the new Tweeter-in-chief will surely find that Congress didn’t rack up its appalling 8 percent approval rating for nothing. (Well, actually—that’s exactly how those dipsticks committed cred suicide—by doing nothing).
If the Democrats in the House and Senate want to play the Obstructionist Game, they’ve been eyewitness to the best in that biz for the last eight years, although it must be said that raging and obnoxious obstructionism isn’t a particularly attractive political philosophy. If Trump and the GOP manage to put forth positive, productive programs for the country—finally!—I’ll acknowledge and praise. No problem. I’m not anti-American, after all. There were plenty of times in the last eight years when I thought that the Republicans were being so fervent in their anti-Obama pigheadedness that they indeed crossed the line into quasi-treasonous anti-Americanism, and where the fuck is that at?
Second, the names now being rolled out for cabinet posts, while not particularly inspired, are at least slightly less terrifying. While nobody’s gonna relax with a batshit ding dong like Steve Bannon hanging around the West Wing (and jesus, Steve, get a decent shave!), and please somebody give Sarah Palin a new reality show to keep her raving ass out of Washington, I have to admit that my sleep patterns won’t be disrupted much if either of the Main Mormons, Mitt Romney or Jon Huntsman, get the call for secretary of state—especially Huntsman, who has been one of the few Repubs in the last 10 years who has shown any signs of sanity, civility and moderation, making him a genuine throwback to the days when you could talk to a Republican for five minutes without experiencing a nasty little mini-upchuck.
So yes, things are lightening up. A bit. But just as I begin to soften and snooze, the famous words of W.B. Yeats begin to rise, marsh gas-like, from the brackish waters of the Undrainable Swamp …
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,/Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?
Latest numbers: HRC 65.3 mill/DJT 62.7 mill. Margin—2.6 mill. 48.2 to 46.2 percent. Death to the E.C.!