America, wake the “bleep” up on Donald Trump

donald trump

Please note that this is not an endorsement of Donald Trump, Hillary Clinton, or of any candidate, but rather an opinion piece on how a nation can be hypnotized by constant media attention, fear of ‘the other guy’, short attention spans, and even shorter memories.

The Underdog Twist

This year’s favorite past-time is, without a doubt, Donald Trump bashing. You can’t flip on the screen without an editorial taking a crowbar to Donald’s nether regions. The staff at your local newspaper have taken so whole-heartily to the practice, that you can imagine a stuffed effigy of Donald Trump hanging by a noose at the reception desk; every day an intern passes by and stuffs a firecracker up its ass.

In this insistent sacking, in this insistent Judas burning, we are making an underdog out of The Donald. The first time we banged him over the head, we rejoiced. After all, less than a year ago Trump was the main man. He was the one who had all the bucks to bag the ballots. Now, ten months later, we are still kicking him in the groin. We are verbally submitting him to all sorts of punishments.

His politics, his wife, his hair, his potato-like frame, his IQ, nothing is off limits.

The liberal press has devolved Donald Trump, over the months, into a special handicapped student with ADD. One of the fellow travelers of the “special bus”. What is more worrisome is the fact that we are still taking a jab to him and, worse, to all those that agree with him the slightest bit.

It is the equivalent of tarring someone with turrets syndrome over and over again.

Or more to the case, it’s a scenario were our blows landed him with brain damage. He’s out of ICU and, just as he passes the gates of the hospital, we’re in the parking lot waiting. We have a six pack, a bat, and some demented jock with a trio of glass coke bottles on his fingers.

We’ve made The Donald, the billion dollar man, he who is married to a Supermodel, the underdog. Our jabs, jokes, jests, and japes have single handily slid him into a place where we are unconsciously fed up with all the constant punches flung his way. Where people are somehow rooting for him.

“Come on, can’t you see he’s already down. Stop kicking him in the nuts!? Guys, let’s give him a break. You know, you guys are dicks!”

It’s our fault this happened.

As Daniel Engber writes at Slate it is as:

If an underdog win was four times less likely — but 10 times more gratifying.

Hippies Theorem

I’m paraphrasing here, but Patton Oswald once said, that steak tastes so much better because every time you eat it you know somewhere a hippy lost his hacky-sack.

We are hardwired to detest those that constantly put us down. We simply can’t stand someone judging us. All of us want to punch the vegan hate fucking us with their eyes whenever we dig into a bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. The same for the pseudo-intellectual rolling his head in shame cause he found 50 Shades of Grey under our bed and the proceeds to tsk-tsk our literary garbage. We broil at the trust-fund hippy snickering in distaste as he flicks through our record collection. It smacks of the glib Woody Allen analog tossing their atheism in our faces and flicking off our would-be deity.

No one likes smarty pants constantly telling us how to live our lives.

We all have a secret shame. We all, in our darkest moments, might find ourselves in our bathrobes rocking it out to some long forgotten Backstreet Boy tune. Or we privately read that trashy bit of tabloid in the comfort of our toilet. We are entitled to a base, degrading and debauchee atrocity that we condescend to in our alone moments. We deserve an intellectually humiliating bit of fetish that serves as mental foreplay. True, we might hate Donald Trump, but if for a moment some comment of his rings a bell in our cerebellum, we are instantly grouped into a sack of neuron deficient inbreeds. We are cast instantly as background players from “The Hills Have Eyes,” by Harvard trained wise-crackers.

Just think about it. How many times have you tuned in, just to see some cerebral muckety-muck putting down Donald Trump and his fan-base. Not just putting them down, but downright flaying them alive. Comparing their ideals and mental acuity to that of a pet rock. Scholarly giants, looking down their noses at anyone who has the tenacity to even agree with one iota of Donald Trump’s argument. These rational and highbrow individuals, these bookish brains, take an almost erotic pleasure to undermining a whole sphere of voters. These are often petty and snarky remarks meant primarily to fill their ego. They serve to give their backs a proper pat and their cocks a royal wank at the expense of a whole collection of taxpayers. It foments a dynamic that will end up with voters, particularly those on the fence, flocking to the boxes with revenge galvanizing their electoral decision.

Fuck you, Stephen Colbert! This will show you, Sean Penn. I like you guys, but I’m fed up of being called a redneck just cause I like Pabst.

The Flying Fuck Factor

In a world where Pokemon rules supreme and we would rather scour the net for tips on how to ensnare a Charmander than get our jollies on by choking the goose (like our digitally awe stuck forefathers of the 90s) is it any wonder The Donald is blazing the campaign trail?

A few weeks ago, I read a wonderful novel by Christopher Buckley, “Supreme Courtship”. Let’s lump it on the back burner as it regards the real theme and conflict for now. Allow me enough rope to work a tangent into my argument. One of the novel’s plot-lines concerned a Senator who had been passed off for a post as a Supreme Judge. He was a charismatic politician with more ego than brains. In a twist, the Senator is offered a prime-time role as a faux president in T.V’s latest “West Wing” debacle. But, unlike that Sorkin production, this series is nothing more than a male fantasy’s rendition of what being POTUS is all about. It is the equivalent of that hidden season of 24 where Jack gets the seat at Capitol Hill. There is a leggy Latin leading lady, bandits, betrayers, bangs and Bratvas. There are Koreans, Muslims, Russians and cocaine runners. Every episode has an end of the world crisis. It is a constant sweep’s week on the roller-coaster that is Air Force One. We call it a rating bonanza. By the end of the first season, the Senator became a household name. One of the political parties offered him a slot on the ticket. He won the nomination and, despite all the Hollywood insanity that accompanied him, he somehow managed to almost (by a slim margin) beat his adversary.

The lesson? If IT will keep us entertained, we will vote for IT.We are a society with the attention span of an overdosed hummingbird on smack.

If there is the slightest possibility that we might veer into that sweet-spot where reality TV meets the wacky settlers of an insane asylum then we will tune in. Give us Cupcake Wars over CNN any day of the week. Defenestrate C-Span for a healthy dose of Duck Dynasty. Unconsciously, we want Trump to win because we might actually get a reenactment of some of Game Of Thrones’ most harrowing episodes. He already promised the Wall for goodness sake.

It’s horrible to believe we are so frivolous, but we all get a tingling jolt when the loons take over the prison. We certainly can’t forget Congress discussing what constitutes as sex, and the dynamics of a blowjob. We’ll never delete from our mental TiVo Cheney’s ill-fated duck hunt. Trump, sadly, is akin to having Charlie Sheen back in Two and Half Men and the series being picked up by HBO and handed to the scriptwriters of Californication.

The Devil You Don’t Know Postulate

In this election year, both candidates are so close to the bottom of the barrel, that the lip they strive for might as well be on the moon. The watermark of excellence has been sanded off and in its place is a white chalk line that is constantly being erased and relocated further south.

Two toxic pools of sludge waddle side by side. Donald Trump is glowing with a weird otherworldly green tint, pulsating and bubbling in front us; ethereal and Lovecraftian. While Hillary simply stews in comparison. The real determining agent? The fact that the Geiger counter can’t make heads or tails out of Donald’s slime, yet it goes ape-shit whenever it gets close to Hillary’s meaty soup.

Hillary is a known quantity. We, as a nation, are well aware of her trappings and secrets. Her closet has been sprung open and, once that blood splattered light-bulb flings to life and we beat back the need to vomit, we can tally up the dead. We’ve managed to come to grips with her graveyard. It may be a vile, vast, vacuum vault, reminiscent of Pol Pot’s mass graves. Each time we shift through one layer of skeletons, we’re amazed by the out of place phalanges that leads to a deeper more perturbed level of bony sediments. We’ve come to expect these sort of atrocities, they don’t phase us anymore.

What’s one more WikiLeaks email on the funeral pyre of morals, fair play and decency.

Donald Trump, despite his volatile verbiage, is the mysterious X-Factor. The one candidate who’s so far of the box, that he’s watching the box from the next county with a pair of binoculars while rehearsing a speech penned by Andy Kaufman’s ghost. Our one hope? That our strangely racist, partially demented uncle manages to take his subscription medications. Maybe with a bit of pharmaceutical aid, he’ll somehow revert back to being less Donald.

There is an old saying: “Better the devil you know, than the devil you don’t.” Unfortunately, our fallen angel compatriot, the one we’ve had biscuits and tea with, is one scary motherfucker.

The “Eh” Hypothesis

Let’s get one thing straight, so far, Morgan Freeman and Katy Perry, and the like, have endorsed Hillary because they can’t begin to fathom the alternative. No one has actually told us why A is better than B.

The President, should be a person who strives to honorably fill in the spot. We should elect someone because we endorse their doctrines, their message, their decorum and, overall, their project for the next 4 years. Not because the alternative scares the living crap out of us.

All those academics, listed above, haven’t exactly backed their horse with the proper type of training. They are so entrenched in their own endorphin high, in their necessity to beat Donald about, that they’ve forgotten to actually give us a reason to vote for Hillary. Their arguments, mired in their stabs and snowballed in the cannon fodder, is that Donald Trump is wacky.

When we picked Obama, he was “The Change”. Will our next election simply be: Why not?

The Blanket Effect

Any publicity guru worth their salt will tell you that as long as you have a good marketing strategy, your product might as well be feces covered wasps, cause anything with the right ad behind it will sell. The trick is to plaster it on people’s mind. It’s when they stop talking about you, that you should be afraid.

Donald Trump, for all his antics, has a voodoo spin doctor manning his campaign. They don’t care how he reaches the headline as long as he’s there. His negative appeal has turned into opening night magic. It’s the all Donald Trump network: 24/7, every channel, every conversation, every forum, every turn of the clock. It’s the premiere. We’ve been blasted with trailers, hidden scenes, sizzle reels, T.V spots, editorials on both sides, that a Trump presidency has gained a certain mystical appeal. It has traversed the pragmatic and mundane to become the stuff of folklore.

That’s the danger of such an epic cluster-fuck. The fact that our lizard brain has been programmed to buy the tickets to the spectacle despite the bad reviews.

We simply want to see it on account that it has gained such traction. If the film doesn’t come out, collectively, we’ll be disappointed. We knew that Superman V. Batman was going to be a dud, but that didn’t prevent us from flocking to the theater with anticipation. We’ve been hacked by the media storm of our own making. We are a generation playing with fire, we need to see the outcome, despite the third degree burns.

A nation playing with fire is always dangerous.   When that nation controls the world’s most powerful munitions stockpile, it makes playing with fire irresponsible. Hopefully, this is all just a bad dream.  Hopefully, America will wake the fuck up.

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