Blog Credo

The whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, all of them imaginary.

H.L. Mencken

Thursday, June 18, 2015

I Will Not Post On Donald Trump

I will let TBogg do it:

With his unpolished bombast, his nativist streak, his faux patriotic hoo-hah, and his garish gold-plated toilet version of class, Trump feeds into the hopes and dreams of the kind of person who thinks a three-day vacation at a pyramid-shaped hotel in Vegas is the the height of luxury. He speaks their language; blunt, brash, dull-witted, and untethered by deep thought or an interior live that is more than a endless loop of sleep, eat, watch TV, and poop until a merciful death.
That group of potential primary voters is going to keep Trump around long enough to suck up all of the  media attention oxygen in the room, forcing his primary opponents to have to double-down on the stupid just to get a soundbite on the evening news in order to stay mildly relevant until he drops out due to boredom.
How does the conservative press view Trump?
Witness NRO’s Kevin Williamson — who is basically Jonah Goldberg with the ability to finish a thought — welcoming Trump into the fold, under the less-than-equivocal title of “Witless Ape Rides Escalator.”
Donald Trump may be the man America needs. Having been through four bankruptcies, the ridiculous buffoon with the worst taste since Caligula is uniquely positioned to lead the most indebted organization in the history of the human race.
Want more? Of course you do.
Donald Trump, being Donald Trump, announced his candidacy at Trump Plaza, making a weird grand entrance via escalator — going down, of course, the symbolism of which is lost on that witless ape. But who could witness that scene — the self-made man who started with nothing but a modest portfolio of 27,000 New York City properties acquired by his millionaire slumlord father, barely out of his latest bankruptcy and possibly headed for another one as the casino/jiggle-joint bearing his name sinks into the filthy mire of the one U.S. city that makes Las Vegas look respectable, a reality-television grotesque with his plastic-surgery-disaster wife, grunting like a baboon about our country’s “brand” and his own vast wealth — and not see the peerless sign of our times?
And things kind of go downhill from there.

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