The Empty Soul of Donald Trump

I have always hated Donald Trump.

I hated him when he was a self-styled New York City businessman preening for any camera within sight. I hated him when he was a reality TV star, reveling in the sadism his mantle on The Apprentice afforded him.

And I hate him as President of the United States of America.

This is because the most contemptible example of humanity is the person who loves to dish out abuse but can't take it themselves. While they gleefully smear reputations, engage in rumor-mongering and relish the opportunity to pile-on, they erupt in self-righteous indignation whenever the snark and the humiliation is directed at them.

And while this dynamic has reached epidemic proportions in 2019 America, one figure towers above all in the wholeheartedness of his embrace: our president.

Even beyond the taxing demands of issuing a non-stop barrage of childish nicknames for anyone who doesn't worship at the altar of Donald, the Trump-whore is perpetually on guard for slights and insults; accusations that every word falling from his tiny, pursed mouth isn't necessarily the soul of truth.

Or suggestions that in the manifold obligations of his office, Donald might be, um, bereft.

When he isn't puffing out his chest and extolling his great and innumerable accomplishments, the Trump-whore is belittling and accusing. That's it. That's all he has. Two speeds. Two dimensions.

Which, I hasten to point out, is one less than you and I and just one removed from Scooby Doo.

After a recent sketch on Saturday Night Live (which, like all satire worthy of the name, contained more than a grain of truth), Donald again took to Twitter and issued another puerile attack, suggesting that anyone with the temerity to mock a giant like himself ought to be investigated.

He went on to suggest that the show's less-than-flattering portrayal of him was “one-sided” and that it was potentially illegal.

As a radicalized socialist, I'll admit it was one-sided. It was the complete opposite of Donald's appearance last night at CPAC, where he pleaded with the nation to take an objective look at our media and consume it responsibly.

Where he urged his base to move on from the manufactured scandal of Hillary Clinton's e-mails, put aside its knee-jerk hatred of immigrants and consider—if only for a moment—how a pending real estate deal in Moscow might have compromised his campaign's integrity.

But the night's high point occurred when the Trump-whore revealed previously-unknown depths of honesty. He fell to one knee and like a sinner prostrated before the cross, admitted it was possible more people may have attended Barack Obama's inauguration than his own.

Sniff.

Instead of sober reflection on his failed summit with political despot Kim Jong un or laying out a plan to consolidate the nation's strengths and how best to shore-up its weaknesses, the Trump-whore whined and complained about the same things he's been whining and complaining about for more than two years now.

A one-trick pony running the only course he knows.

It was a pitiable, one-hundred twenty-minute howl from the forlorn wilderness of Donald's empty soul. The lashing-out of a petulant bully who doesn't understand why everyone doesn't do what he tells us to do and believe what he tells us to believe.

Why can't we take him at face value, they way he does Vladimir Putin and Kim Jong-un? What is wrong with us? Why can't we see Donald the way he sees himself?

If there has been a sadder figure ever to occupy elected office, I'd like to see them. But even as a recipient of what is often termed the world's best health care, I don't think I'll live that long.