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Unhinged. Psychotic. A maniac.
If it were just an act, I could accept the overnight rantings of the President of the United States. But in the wee hours of the morning, when most people are peacefully asleep, this man ignores the filters that most normal people have, and pours out his thoughts and feelings for all the world to see. He dreams while awake, screaming, howling, and bellowing IN ALL CAPS, not concerned for a moment what anyone thinks. It was fascinating, the other day, to see the New York Post, hardly a pinko bearer of false news, as the President might say, telling their man that there is such a thing as stretching the limits, that his antics can challenge the ability of even his most stalwart supporters to defend his mental health.
The question is, deep down inside, what is bothering this poor man? More than anything else, I believe, he loves to be in control. He loves knowing that he’s holding the cards, that the power is all his, that he can make others bend to his will—or else. Ask Harvard, ask any federal judge, ask any Republican who has dared to say a word against a single one of his initiatives, whether they sleep well at night. All is well for this insomniac when people and events fall neatly into line. However, chaos rules when things are not so black and white, where he cannot say, “Bend to my will, or else,” and there are three domains where things rattle around out of control in the raucous mind of this madman.
The first involves tariffs and prices. He starts with a simple idea, as befits his simple mind. Nobody’s going to play us for suckers. If they tax us, we’ll tax them twice as much. But it turns out that as much as the US is at the center of the economic world, not even we can control everything. The problem is that this man of limited cognitive complexity cannot understand why others, those with much and little power, play tit for tat and charge us more in return, why many US businesses don’t welcome his trade wars, and why people seem so upset that prices are going up. I reasoned with them, says the President in his sleeping-waking hours, maybe little girls will have fewer dolls to play with, but those idiots don’t understand. I know better, says the self-acknowledged smartest man in the room (actually in the world), but it keeps him up at night not to rule all economically and have absolute control.
The second, less in the headlines these last few days, but nonetheless keeping the man up at night, is not being able to do a damned thing about the Middle East. Why can’t those idiots, both Israelis and Arabs, he says to himself, see that Gaza could become a beautiful resort town? Who cares about centuries of religious hatred and conflict, says he. There’s money to be made, and the man of limited perspective finds it impossible that others wouldn’t put all else aside when there’s the chance to rake in shekels by the millions. The man sort of admires Bibi Netanyahu. Bibi’s the kind of strongman that fits the profile of the Trump club of autocrats, but there’s that problem of not being able to exert total control over him. Yes, I could put the screws to him and threaten to cut off money and arms to Israel, but there are just too many moneyed Jewish bankers and backers for that to be a real threat—and Bibi knows it. And then there’s Hamas. Isn’t there anyone who can lay down the law. Stephen Miller, can’t you figure out a way to make them do as we demand? And, while I focus on the killing in Ukraine, it sort of hurts to see all those people dying—for no reason—in Gaza. You see, says Saint Donald to himself, I really sort of, almost, have a heart. And by the way, it’s costing us a lot of money to help Israel, and they’ve never even given me a jet.
And then there’s Ukraine. I did promise that I’d end that war as soon as I took office, and if it were up to me, I’d just hand over all of that dirty little country to the Russki’s, but my advisors tell me that there are enough conservatives out there who would actually dare to give me grief if I totally capitulated to the Russians. So I tell my friend Vlad that we’ve got to compromise and end this, and you know what, Vladi turns his back, makes demands, says no to my face. I can yell, I can howl all night in my posts. I can tell reporters that he’s disappointing me and I can threaten sanctions, but, damn it, it’s becoming clear to me that old friend Vladi might have been playing me all along. The worst is that while I hate not being able to say, “Do as I say–or else,” I hate being wrong. Could this be the end of our bromance—Vladi, are you breaking up with me? I hate that we can’t be buddies, feared yet beloved dictators, me and you marching arm in arm, each with a smug smile. So sad.
Bibi, Vladi, please, please listen. No, I’m no sucker. I’m no softie, I’m not saying “Please.” you MUST listen.
I’ve got my jet, I’ll get my military parade, but I’m losing control, I’m losing my mind. Stevie Miller, come over, tuck Daddy in, and make it all right. Oh, if only I could get some sleep…
