File under #Grabembythebigotry. [Copyright to John Haas.]
So, Donald “George Wallace” Trump enlightened us all on his racial views yesterday before a group of black journalists. And, as one Republican strategist referred to the performance, “It was like watching a baby crawl across the highway.” As in, Please dear God, just get him to the other side and get this over with as quickly as possible. If you are a Republican.
For Democrats, it couldn’t last long enough. The only question is, do they have enough money to create ads enough to contain all of Trump’s wisdom. I mean, what do you leave out? The racism? The lies? The vow to pardon J6ers who attacked and injured cops? You know, the law and order champion. The tsunami of sheer moronic stupidity?
Whenever I see a Trump performance like this, I always think of Jerry Seinfeld standing over the pantsed George, shaking his head and saying, “So you want to be my latex salesman!” (I’ll post a clip below in case you don’t remember it.)
So you want to be my president. I don’t think so.
I love Trump’s half-assed peroration on Kamala Harris’ race.
Trump: “All of a sudden she made a turn and she became a black person. And I think someone should look into that.”
I mean, come on. The dude is too lazy to even do his own racist research. “She’s not really black. Someone should look into that.”
Um, someone did. Took three seconds. She’s black. And Indian.
That red goop on the walls is evidence of the explosion in Trump’s brain. Two races in one?! Lawdy, Lawdy, how can it be?!!
Of course, Trump knew what he was doing. His audience wasn’t that assemblage of black journalists. Or black or brown America. His audience was white America. He is betting that amping up the racism will keep MAGA America enthusiastically in his camp.
It will only get uglier from here.
He is likely correct about MAGA America. But there is more to America, more to white America, even more to MAGA America. Or, at least, I hope there is.
I have two competing theories ricocheting around my head.
The first we might call my Joseph Welch theory. You may remember his famous words to Joe McCarthy.
Welch: “Until this moment, Senator, I think I never really gauged your cruelty or your recklessness. You have done enough. Have you no sense of decency?”
And just like that McCarthy’s career was over.
It won’t be quite so easy to end Trump’s career. We likely won’t be gifted a Joseph Welch. Or a moment so crystalline.
But if enough Americans feel what Welch felt that day in 1954, this racist’s career will end this November. And his name will reside with McCarthy’s in the dustbin holding the worst of American history.
But I have a second theory. We might call it the Die Hard theory.
There’s a moment in Die Hard when Alan Rickman/Hans is screaming at Bruce Willis/John McClane over the radio. Hans has just shot one of his hostages, and McClane seems unfazed. Hans threatens to keep shooting his hostages until “eventually I get to somebody you DO care about.”
Eight/four years ago, I thought Trump would eventually get to somebody his supporters DID care about. And they would turn on him. Now I’m not so sure.
Was it a bridge too far when he assaulted and raped women? No. Did it cross your line in the sand when he mocked a disabled reporter? No. Did you finally think he wasn’t worthy of being president when he invited Russia to weigh in on our politics? No. Did it cause alarm when he insulted Mexicans? No. Did it make you think that this might not be a year to vote Republican when he trashed our allies? No. Did you wonder if he could bring the country together when he constantly re-tweeted items from neo-Nazi and racist websites? No. Does it bother that he supports QAnon? No. Does it shake your equilibrium when he golfs while a virus kills over one million Americans? No. Did you gasp when he supported his child separation policy by declaring that the children were well taken care of? No. Really? Yes.
Eight/four years ago I thought Trump would indeed eventually get to somebody/something that his supporters cared about.
Now I wonder if Hans won’t shoot John McClane’s wife, and McClane won’t even flinch.
xxx