Trump Trumps Trump

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Been thinking a lot about the Women’s March on Washington ever since the women’s march on Washington … (and New York and Chicago and L.A. and Denver and Des Moines and Boise and Knoxville and Pocatello and Houston and Paris and Cleveland and Antarctica and everywhere else). See, I’ve been concerned that a lot of pent-up energy would be released, and then? What?

I mean, five people protesting in the streets and five million people protesting in the streets amount to pretty much the same thing if, when everyone goes home at night, it’s all over.

So, will those marchers continue resisting in other manners? Will those marchers transfer their enthusiasm and energy into electing opposition figures. Will they run for elected office, themselves? Was this the beginning of something big and potent and persistent? … or was it little more than a therapeutic eruption of latent frustration, and now that we feel better … hey, let’s go get coffee and take selfies of ourselves in our pink hats for Facebook, okey-doke?

However, aside from what the future holds, it’s become increasingly evident that the Great March actually accomplished a significant goal in and of itself that, before last weekend, most of the participants might never have even realized was a goal. Judging from leaks coming from within the week-old administration, Mister Pansy Hands was “visibly enraged” when media sources (all of ’em) compared his own Inauguration crowd (puny) to the turnout of marchers (gigantifastical).

And as we have seen in virtually every public thing the slob has done since taking office—from his puerile speech at the CIA to his interview with ABC to his call for an investigation into the massive voter fraud he insists took the popular vote from him—he is obsessed, and getting more obsessed every day, with proving his supporters vastly out-number his detractors. An impossible task, given that he started out by losing and has been dropping in the polls like a tired penis since.

So if nothing else, the Women’s March agitated Trump’s inner infant—that obscene baby-thing that wallows around in it’s own shit and piss at the center of the Donald’s raison d’etre, demanding ever-more frequent feedings of positive reinforcement and fawning attention, even if it has to come through the filthy nipple of “alternative facts.”

We must thank the millions who marched for bringing out the worst in the worst, as well as for providing the template for the way forward. Yes, in a kinder, gentler world, I’m sure “Love Trumps Hate.” But in the world we have been given and the nature of the beast we are dealing with, I’m convinced that “Antagonism Trumps Immature Assholes” will work a lot quicker.

So I am serious when I say that the most powerful action you and I and regular citizens could take to see to it that Trump’s White House residency is as temporary as possible would be to keep him in a constant and heightened state of defensiveness, of irritation and combativeness. A constant string of demonstrations, right there in his front yard, weekend after weekend, ad infinitum, ought to do it. And I don’t believe it will take ad infinitum. He has neither the strength of character nor the moral fiber to hold himself together for long.

And what greater weapon could we ask for in the crusade against Trump than Trump himself? Trump at his most needy? His most twisted and ugly? His most nakedly vain, insanely infantile, seedy and venal and unfit for respectable company?

After all, this tinpot pretender has spent the greatest share of his life trying to convince the public he really isn’t a squalid little bum, then reverts to being a squalid little bum whenever his delusions are overshadowed by reality.

We have the power in our numbers to overshadow his delusions.

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