We can name more Jersey Shore cast members than our state’s Senators. We have commercials telling our kids to go outside and play. We are steaming into the twenty-first century, powered by wheezing, poisonous 19th century technology. And the little pocket-sized super computer that we bought six months ago, that tiny little thing that would have been considered nothing short of wizard class magic ten short years ago, we can’t wait to throw that worthless piece of shit away the split second they let us buy the new version that’s 3% slimmer and has TWO cameras in six months.
In a time when the goal is no longer to achieve anything laudable, or to contribute anything to the betterment of mankind for future generations, when to excel and be exceptional is seen as being kind of a dick move, when dignity and self-respect are quaint and adorable notions of the past and the most sought after personal goal is to have one’s own reality show, who better to represent this failed generation than Donald Trump?
We all know that he’s probably not going to win. It seems like that would be a given. But just because he’s probably not, and that he never should, and to even think about it makes the brain wet its little brain pants, doesn’t mean that he couldn’t. My Governor killed invisible aliens and was Danny DeVito’s hilariously implausible twin for 90 minutes… So, don’t talk to me about won’t and shouldn’t.
This is a man who builds giant, forty story, gold-plated failure penises and wallpapers them with his name. This is a man who brags about supposedly fucking over a dictator in a land deal like he’s waiting for you to high-five him. This is a man who feuds with Rosie O’Donnell and has gotten backing from such great political titans as Bret Michaels and Gary Busey.
There was a time, I assume, when we as a people wanted to be represented in the highest halls of power by those that we believed were the best of us. When we wanted people smarter than us to be in charge of important things like, making sure the French didn’t try to fondle our balls a second longer than we wanted them to, or to tell the Germans to cut it out already. The idea of choosing a leader because you think it might be cool to hang out with them and tell squirrel stompin’ stories over a couple Old’ Milwaukees, or because you think he might flip off the King of Arabistan, call Russia a fag and punch the United Nations in the taint, is all fucking insane.
If Donald Ulysses Trump were elected President of these God’s United States, sure, it would be hilarious. I’m not about to question the entertainment value of it. The country would finally complete its transformation into one giant reality show, issuing a flip camera and a web domain to every citizen within its borders. Camera crews would follow the Trump at all times, he would have a confessional room built into the oval office, and we would no doubt all be murdered by the outrageously inappropriate actions of Secretary of State Omarosa.
But… what was I saying? I’m not sure really. The more I talk about it, the more I wonder why I was even thinking of fighting this at all. I’m sure Vice President Gene Simmons couldn’t possibly be worse than Biden, and that’s a man who knows how to brand a marginal franchise into, pathetic, yet unquestionable profitability. And personal pride is over rated anymore anyway.
Let’s just face the facts that Abraham Lincoln isn’t going to show up again. And besides, we wouldn’t let him. Why would we want to? It’s not about what’s best for us anymore, it’s about what’s most ironically hilarious. This is what we get, this is what we deserve.