Trump. That one word, a truncated German surname applied to the most ill-advised choice for a US Presidential candidate–not just of a major political party but of any group outside of NAMBLA, the KKK or the Nazis and maybe not even them–has morphed from ridiculous to frightening. I admit to not watching the Republican convention, not even a single minute, not even sound clips on CNN. My stomach won’t take the stress.
Where do I get my information? I do read, slowly, haltingly, but not just from what Sarah Palin refers to as lame-stream media. If only a portion of what I’ve perused is even partially correct, the GOP of 2016 has chosen to attempt ripping pages off the calendar, winding the clock back to…when? 1916? Back when men were men, sheep were nervous, lippy minorities learned their lessons at the end of a rope and uppity women were knocked to their knees time and time again until they begged for more.
The world doesn’t work that way. At least I fervently hope it doesn’t.
Four years ago, eight years ago, I was able to laugh at the strange characters who expressed a desire to be President of the United States. Mitt Romney? Didn’t care for guys who strap a dog carrier on the roof (dog inside) for a vacation trip but in retrospect, he wasn’t bad. McCain? Not much to my taste but I’d take him in a second compared to what Trump represents. In 2016, laughter is choked off in my throat and tears fill my eyes when I think of Trump representing a major political party from the country where I am a citizen.
Forty-two years ago give a few days, I eyed a monitor at WDTB-TV, Channel 13, the NBC affiliate in Panama City, Florida, of the day, and watched as Richard Nixon resignedly resigned. In my mind, on that night and for four decades to come, Nixon represented everything that could go wrong with the political system all bundled into one ball of knotted hatred.
Now, Trump is being compared to Nixon in favorable terms for both he and the long dead former President.
The return of Richard Milhous Nixon, picture a ghoulish figure stumbling from the grave with arms extended and musty dirt clods dropping off rotted clothing, groping for a victim like a bit part player from Night of the Living Dead, would be vastly preferable to watching the approach of Donald Trump.