The Wind That Blows in Three Directions at Once

I've always been the curious type. So it's only natural that I try to understand things. Even Republicans.

As I observe the brain-damaged example currently in the White House, I have to wonder what became of one of the core tenets of Republican ideology. You know, the one about personal responsibility.

I'm not talking about washing your hands after using the bathroom (although that's always a good idea). No, I'm talking about the one which implies “I never needed any help from anyone—ever. I got everything I have by myself without any help from anybody. So keep your taxes and your subsidies and social programs out of my paycheck.”

Fantasies are wonderful things. They're like a guest house situated on a remote corner of property. Or a man cave. They're private places where we can unwind, stretch out and exhale. Places where we can pretend. Places where we can forget about getting the kids to soccer practice and the recurring check engine light in the car.

But fantasies only go so far.

Take the governor of a state who adamantly refuses to expand Medicaid in accordance with the Affordable Care Act, and cites state sovereignty as one of the unassailable touchstones of democracy.

But then a natural disaster strikes. And all that resolute self-sufficiency evaporates like water on a Phoenix sidewalk. I'll leave it to your supple imagination to puzzle-out the governor who is first in line for a hand-out.

And then there is America's most-profound purveyor of personal responsibility—our President.

The son of a wealthy developer who had his career jump-started with a fourteen-million dollar loan from daddy (how's that for rugged self-sufficiency?), Donnie asks that we overlook this and instead see him as he sees himself: as an amazing man gifted with an unerring prescience for making quick and incisive decisions.

Donnie's willingness to shoulder the yoke of responsibility is best illuminated when it comes to owning up to his failures. He takes full responsibility only for assigning blame, sounding like the youngest sibling who squeals on his older brothers and sisters.

Donnie is waylaid by the media and its relentless barrage of fake-news. Donnie is waylaid by a cabal of Democrats and their witch hunts. Donnie is waylaid by disloyal advisors and cabinet members. And Donnie is waylaid by corrupt Federal agencies. 

All of them conspire to make Sir Whine-a-Lot look bad. It never ends. No wonder the hardest working component of Donnie's physiology is his index finger. 

Paragon of personal responsibility that he is, Donnie is responsible only for his successes—such as they are.

(To be fair, he has proved himself consistently capable of finding his way from the private living quarters on the second floor of the White House to his offices on the first. So there's that.)

But every bad decision, every fumbled response and every tactical error is someone else's fault.

To use our President's favorite expression, it's rigged.

Who would know better than the guy who enlisted Vladimir Putin's hackers to help tilt the election his way?

Who would know better than the guy who made his businesses the portal through which anyone seeking access to the White House must pass?

Who would know better than the guy who gave himself and his businesses and his most-ardent sponsors a big, fat bri—I mean tax break?

Who would know better than the guy who granted immunity to the two most-potentially damaging witnesses in the Mueller investigation?

And who would know better than the guy who nominated a lap cat to sit on the Supreme Court, thereby guaranteeing him a friendly judge and jury should the Mueller investigation become a little too threatening?

Yeah, Donnie. It's rigged.

And however unintentional it is, it's refreshing to hear you finally speak the truth.