The Paper Folders

National Alert: a 31-year old, wet-eared kid has taken the podium to lecture us about democracy and tough love, demanding that we know in his infantile certainty that the power of the President over national security is absolute. He sternly informs us not to question either the President’s wisdom or authority. He claims the cloak of the constitution.  His eyes, unblinking, are hollow. They are blank and focused, directed and void. They reflect the empty promises that is the ideology of true believers. He insists, in the words of W. H. Auden (in his poem, “Funeral Blues”) that we “stop all the clocks.”

Take the time to ask him: who is your daddy? No doubt, he is unsure. He is so over his head. One day his sound bites will have the same effect as prom pictures–the hippness of the time that seems so permanent and magic and held all the answers is swiftly left behind. But he is grim, of the kind who will cling. He will fight and become more desperate. It is obvious he is lost. He folds the paper before he is finished.

Trump likes losers, paper folders and thieves to fawn over him. He basks in perpetual adoration. He loves the applause of the rich. The court jesters. The councils of power. He hates other world leaders because he cannot mock them. He is angered by their indulgence. He is impatient with their pace. Out from the closet comes his bad-boy crush. Diplomatic channels are simply another form of the locker room.

Those whispered, back channel messages through emissaries got the National Security Council Director fired. When a man says “I haven’t heard of it,” he has. Trump had prior knowledge. General Flynn was a tattle-tale. He couldn’t keep anything to himself, a bad quality for a chief of intelligence. He was impulsive and sought out domestic enemies without realizing he had slipped into the dark side and had become one.

Did Trump say . . .

toilet paper fold


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