Donald's Tulsa, Oklahoma Adventure

There was a great to-do surrounding Sir Lies A-Lot's campaign rally over the weekend in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

First, it was scheduled on Juneteenth, a celebration of the emancipation of all slaves living in Texas. Secondly, it also fell uncomfortably close to the ninety-ninth anniversary of the race-based massacre which scarred the city for decades.

Trump's handlers said it was an unfortunate coincidence and re-scheduled the rally for the next night.

However much I want to believe it was a deliberate provocation of black America, given the abundant ignorance that exists within the Trump administration I tend to believe them—this time.

And after all, it's an election year. And as that fact slowly dawns on us, it was expedient for Trump to make nice. 

But nothing beginning with Trump ever ends nice, does it?

There was the obnoxious tweet to “protestors, anarchists, agitators, looters or lowlifes” that they would not be treated as kindly as they had been in the (presumably) soft-on-crime liberal enclaves of New York City, Seattle and Minneapolis.

Now that's the Donald we all know and love.

But my favorite moment was the introduction of the waiver. People wanting to attend Trump's rally had to sign a waiver forfeiting their right to sue Trump and/or his re-election campaign should they contract the Corona virus.

For an administration bent on denying the existence of the pandemic and its extended stay in the United States, it was a curious admission that yes, it's still out there. More specifically, that it is blowing up in Oklahoma.

But this begs a couple of questions. One, when has Trump ever taken responsibility for anything? And two, when has his base ever held him accountable for anything?

Let's face it: Sir Lies-A-Lot could infect their daughters with chlamydia and they'd only pat him on the back and ask was it good for you?

Oh, the irony.

But the punch line for this sad and sordid event didn't arrive until Sunday, when Trump's designated explainer-away told us that the reason for the one-third full arena wasn't the Corona virus or Trump's fading appeal but the threat presented by protestors.

You know, the same protestors Trump promised would be beaten into next week if they dared showed their wretched, socialist faces at his showcase event. It's interesting that those out-of-control hordes never materialized, which leaves me wondering how they obstructed would-be attendees.

I guess you have to be Republican.

The story just gets sadder. And funnier. And sadder.

When will it end?

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.