'A Threat To...?' - The Left, Befuddled And Lost, Looks For Something, Anything To Hate About Donald Trump

The President has had a good eight months.  Since his inauguration he has completely closed the southern border, and illegal immigration is down to zero. He has degraded if not destroyed Iran's nuclear capability and restored complete support for Israel. He has returned the country to full employment, and inflation is at a decades low. 

He has helped negotiate peace between Thailand and Cambodia and Armenia and Azerbaijan, he has eliminated the divisive DEI program, begun to return manufacturing to America, paved the way for American energy independence, and most importantly set in motion an end to the war in Ukraine. 

 

And yet....and still, the Left howls.  The man is a threat to democracy, a tyrant, an enemy of the people, a destroyer, a monomaniacal, power hungry autocrat, a ....

The list is endless. It is pitiful to watch - a party of whirling dervishes doing a St. Vitus' dance, whooping and hollering, looking for a foothold, a fingerhold, anyplace to gain purchase.

To say the Left is in disarray is an understatement. Having run a campaign on nothing but Trump hatred and a febrile claim to black womanhood, the party was roundly defeated and is left with nothing but the pieces.  And sorry pieces they are, particularly in the light of the President's successes.  

Does anyone expect that doddering Bernie Sanders, has one new, creative idea in his head?  The man has been banging on for decades about the evils of capitalism, the need for a radical redistribution of wealth, and the establishment of enlightened socialism.  A Johnny One Note, a street corner preacher, a shabby Cassandra, Sanders has quacked and quacked, ambulance chased like his racial counterpart Al Sharpton who shows up at every black thing that can get him press. 

 

Sanders' platform' is nothing but a litany of old-fashioned, discredited Hegelian nostrums. And yet he whines and thumps trying to draw an audience when most Americans are sick and tired of his hectoring, socialist fantasies. 

AOC, Alexandra Ocasio-Cortez, the young Puerto Rican who is the biggest ankle-biting pain in the ass the Democratic Party has ever come up with.  'The reason why there are directions on a shampoo bottle', says Louisiana Senator John Kennedy.  'An airhead ambulance chaser', said Donald Trump, just like Sanders and Sharpton, running on race and gender, a woman who, like Kamala Harris assumes an entitlement to high office because she's ghetto.  She barks like a street dog but has never been in a real street fight let alone in one with the likes of Putin.  

'But she a looka' said Adalberto Alvarez, 'a spicy enchilada, a sistah'. 

'You only want look under her skirt', said Jeremiah Mackey. 'Cunt want the White House, not yo' sorry ass' - faint praise from her constituents, sick and tired voting for some Poracua who wants a butler and linen and don't give no shit ‘bout da barrio'. 

Kamala Harris, wandering in the political desert still licking her wounds, not quite sure why she lost to Trump, and why her black womanhood didn't get her into the Oval Office. 

'She make no sense whatever, Jim', said Pharoah Jones, who never before in his life ever voted but had been petitioned - yes, petitioned - because of his black positionhood and his obligatory support for anyone of color.  'Fuck dat shit', said Pharoah, used to walkin' around money, entitlement, and DC nepotism.

Gavin Newsom of California, is the prime example of why Trump won the election - a governor who has presided over a tidal wash of illegal Mexicans, demanded high taxes to pay for them, a man of lucrative racial favoritism, and possessed of an arrogant indifference to his state while pursuing Washington ambitions. 

Why is Buttigieg so unpopular among black Americans? 'He doesn't talk to us', says Steven A Smith referring, however tactfully and indirectly, to his 'sexual orientation' - a man married to a man with children from a surrogate woman?  How black is that?

'Any man don't eat pussy ain't goin' get my vote', went around the hood, black men hootin' and hollerin', on the stoop, passing a spliff and a big boy of Colt 45. 

Bob Muzelle, a lifelong progressive, friend of Bill, former colleague of the Reverend Brixton B Farnsworth, Chaplain of Yale, his bus mate on Freedom Rides and marches across the Pettis Bridge with Martin and Ralph, and record-breaking social justice advocate, was nonplussed, down in the dumps, aggravated, and angry at the Trump juggernaut. 

Not only was he forced to witness the whiteness of every last visitor to the White House, the galling image of the blonde, blue-eyed aides and interns assembled on the South Lawn, the cavalier racism of the new President's entourage; but he had to suffer through the faux diplomacy of a rogue fool.  The European leaders in the White House to help negotiate a Ukrainian peace?  There only to cordon off 'the Little Guy, the Jew from Kyiv. Ha! Diplomacy? The inept fear-mongering of a complete fool, an idiot, a misogynistic creep. 

 

Yet the old paradigms didn't seem to fit the times.  Progressives had always put the cart before the horse - a priori judgments before results, the means always justify and are more important than the ends.  As much as Bob tried to fit Trump into the racist-misogynist-Robber Baron cast, the facts belied it.  And yet at the same time, how could he possibly acknowledge success?  That would be tantamount to giving the devil his due. 

This was the absolute defrocking of the Left - there was nothing that Trump had done to even suggest misogyny, racism, fascism, and the rest.  He had resolved what had been thought to be intractable international conflicts, renewed ambitions of energy independence, economic, financial, and military superiority and European-based cultural nationalism. 

'A chimera', said Bob. 'Smoke and mirrors, a shell game'; but his blandishments drifted with the wind, and fewer and fewer people were paying attention.  Who could be against the cleansing of city streets of disgusting, shit-stained, stinking homeless settlements? Or the rooting out of fraud and inefficiency in government?  Or the expulsion of illegal aliens? Or the restoration of sexual sense and sensibility?

'Look beneath the show', insisted Bob. 'Beneath the Sturm und Drang.  The moral corruption is there for everybody to see'; but no one saw what Bob did and saw only a restoration of sanity, probity, and patriotism.  The country was not a morally derelict, oppressively insensitive country as progressives had claimed, but one of optimism, future, and strength. 

'Idiots', Bob repeated. 'Idiots, fools, and backwoods buggers', the usual progressive all-covering tarp thrown over the country by the likes of Bob and his mates; but these censured, dismissed, and ridiculed Americans had gotten it straight from the very beginning.  Bob and his shills were the dupes, the taken for a ride, the fantasists. 

'What can I hate?' said Bob in an unguarded moment, grasping at straws, stretching even his own moral rectitude.  Had Yale not taught him something about logic, intellectual distance, objectivity, and good sense?  The truth will out eventually.  If a man is evil, then evil will out. 

Such tautologies were just about all Bob and his claques had left as the Trump juggernaut moved on; but if you had given your life, your entire life, to believing one way, in one truth, and the existence of many lies, then you could not easily hand 'em up and retire to Florida. 

The death knell of progressivism had rung, the Angelus, the final tolling of the bell; and Bob, good old cultural warrior that he was had a hard time hearing it.  Yet at some point in an old man's life the synapses stop firing, a kind of helpful dementia sets in and the old passions' fire dies out. 

'Are you happy now, dear?' asked Felicia, Bob's longtime and longsuffering wife, fixing herself another Marguerita.