I remember walking out of a bar in college with a pack of buzzed-up buddies. The streets smelled of hot pizza and sloppy women.
Everything was right in the world until our one friend, being the highly entertaining pretty-boy, loud mouth dick he was started talking trash to a big guy. “Really, again” we all thought, having grown tired of his arrogant bravado. You know the type. The guy who’s only tough when he knows someone has his back. So this time rather than stepping up, we all stepped back.
Our friend’s voice fell flat with the sobering realization that he was on his own. The “fight” lasted half a second. Crying, confused and angry that we refused to come to his defense he hurled garbled obscenities at us though his, “bwoken jer.” Picking him up off the sidewalk we felt a sad sense of satisfaction knowing he had gotten exactly what he deserved.
That’s what I see when I look at Donald Trump. Donald’s machismo is easy to like, but impossible to respect. He’s the shit talker without balls. He’s the trouble maker without a conscience. Donald’s the guy who rides in on a white stallion five minutes after the battle has ended to kick a dead guy in the head for a photo op, then tweets about the “epic beat down” while everyone else is busy washing fresh blood from their swollen hands.
He’s strong only when he has a crew standing behind him. Give him that security, whether it’s an army of lawyers or soldiers, and it’s war he will make – secure in knowing that he’ll never have to throw a punch or take a bullet.
Seriously, go through a list current political nominees and ask yourself who you’d want by your side in a street fight?
The Bern… would try desperately to make peace until he went grandpa-mad, defiantly spitting into his palms 1930’s pugilist style seconds before grabbing a t.v. remote from his Lazy Boy in hopes of fashioning a shiv from it only to get trampled to death in the may lay while exiting his recliner.
Rubio… irritable and feisty he’d work the body like an angry small intestine after a late night sweaty meat sandwich binge.
Hillary… feeling supremely protected by her one-inch thick bulletproof mask of makeup fashioned from crushed tiger skulls and wombat urine, would take to gouging eyes, chewing ears and yanking testicles in hopes of finally harvesting enough skin to finish her life-size voodoo doll of Dick Cheney.
Cruz…. would drop to his knees and start praying to God for the courage to beat someone to death in the name of Puritan values with the giant bible he carries in his overpriced Prada briefcase, only to abandon his plan at the first sign of blood and proceed immediately to the nearest hospital in hopes of making bank off a civil lawsuit.
Kasich… fresh off the boat from an Arctic winter survival retreat where he routinely used his own scrotum as an emergency blanket for afternoon power naps would deftly pull a blood stained baby seal club from his trench coat and set to using it.
And where would Donald be? The guy who picked the fight to begin with… he’d be chillin’ on the opposite corner sporting freshly pressed khakis enjoying a hot slice of pizza, chatting up sloppy ladies and launching useless f-bombs at the “idiots” fighting in the street.
Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t care whether you lean left or right, you deserve a president who will stand front and center when the shit goes down.
Spoiler alert. That entertaining friend with the loud mouth turned out to be a douchbag no one could trust. Sadly it took us four-years to figure it out.
Sure hope we don’t make that mistake again.