I’m so fucking tired of Donald Trump.
I’m tired of seeing him on my TV all the time. I’m tired of him, living rent free in our brains. I’m tired of seeing his ugly, conceited, swelled-up orange face everywhere. I’m tired of hearing the audio of him shaking down Georgia Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger for 11,780 votes. I’m tired of seeing new tell-all books coming out about Donald Trump from authors who should have told what they knew back when it would have made a difference. I’m tired of a Republican Party that could, any day they wanted to, excise themselves of this cancer just by having 20 to 50 of their members start getting in front of a camera and telling the truth. I’m tired of it. I’m sick to death of it. Just tell me when he’s been arrested. Otherwise, Joy Reid, otherwise, Chris Hayes, otherwise, Nicolle Wallace, talk to the hand. I’m done with your speculation and your Claire McCaskill and former part-of-the-problem Michael Steele and your giving Donald Trump more oxygen than he deserves. Done with it. Call me when he’s in jail. Otherwise, fuck all ya’ll.
Seriously. Knock it off.
I remember in 2015, when I was working one of the shittiest jobs I’ve ever worked, but at least I got 45 minutes for lunch, so I would get in my car and drive it to a remote part of the parking lot and eat a sandwich and listen to Chris Matthews on MSNBC on Sirius/XM. And he would cover Trump rallies gavel to gavel, and this was held over from the previous hour. They didn’t cover shit about what President Obama was doing, nor did they cover the other candidates like that. Nope. Just Trump. Trump Trump Trump Trump. And now, they’re doing it again.
Well, shove it up your ass, MSNBC.
And let’s get back to a point I glossed over earlier: The “Republican Party” could excise this zit off of its bum any time they want to. Any time. It would take maybe a dozen of them to just get in front of the camera and talk some sense. Like, Joe Biden won the election and is the real preznit. Like, maybe an outgoing preznit shouldn’t lead an insurrection. Maybe that’s bad. Like, maybe theories about my political opponents lusting for the blood of children is something we should discourage. Maybe. Just maybe.
Even just a scintilla of truth from a dozen of these assholes could send Donald Trump into the trash heap of obsolescence that he deserves. But they won’t do it because they are chicken-shit pussies. Or, they’re not and they’re just Marjorie Taylor Greene, who is a golem made of corn chips. Regardless.
I often find myself thinking, with as much hope as I can muster, with as much hope I sometimes have that a banana split will magically appear before me with a spoon, I find myself thinking, well, he has to die sometime. He’s 77, he’s fat, and he’s stupid enough to flush himself down a toilet. He has. To die. Sometime.
But I think it’s too late. Trump is the center of Trumpism, but he’s not the spring from which it flows. Trump would die and become a weird martyr rumored to have special superpowers like Jesus. Did you know Trump can turn a single quarter pounder into hundreds of double cheeseburgers just by farting through his bellybutton? Did you know that Trump could declassify classified documents just by thinking about it? Did you know that Trump was secretly The Buraq and while Muhammed rode his steely back to Mecca, Trump told him lots of funny jokes about Mexicans?
This country is fucked, people. Get out and vote for Biden/Harris in 2024. Meanwhile, put on an Erroll Garner album and chill. Let Joy Reid talk to herself for a bit.