97 long, dark nights for America: Trump and “the neg”
Ninety-seven long, dark nights – each bearing an immeasurable number of fever dreams and night terrors – for America until this detestable thing is over. And with every passing day, I find myself wishing that the heat death of the universe could come just a little sooner and I could be spared the next three-and-a-bit months of rallies and rhetoric; you see, that’s the trouble with the American political body at this precise moment in time – it’s making nihilists of us all.
All that is sparing me from total despair over such a glib, fatuous and cynical election is ensuring that my own thoughts about it are themselves glib, fatuous and cynical.
There is a video, you’ve probably already seen it, of a journalist being called out during a State Department briefing on ISIS for playing Pokémon Go, but, perhaps, that is precisely the sort of disengagement we require at this moment in American history in order to stay sane. In previous generations when hyper-partisanship batshittery gripped the nation, citizens would fixate on nonsense, create new religions, forge holy books, retreat from reason; is it any wonder we would rather be in an augmented reality trying to capture squirltes, snubbulls, clintchous, and trumptards, or complaining about whether a movie franchise rebooted in order to whore twinkies and High-C should star female comedians – it’s all far more preferable to taking politics seriously.
Since the last time I blogged at any length on here, we suffered through the two conventions. A tale of two cities, Cleveland and Philadelphia, and it was the worst of times and the even worst of times. These large American conventions are an inherently strange thing, coming across to me as the TV viewer as if Simon Cowell were left in charge of producing a rally for a totalitarian regime.
The GOP blessed us with bleakness. America is no shining city upon a hill for Trump; it’s a city on lockdown and suffering a blackout. With his puffed-up body language and the laughable way he struts around a stage it is easy (as well as oddly satisfying) to make the comparison between Trump and Mussolini, but that seems unfair – for one, Benito would never be seen dead wearing such a hairstyle. If Trump must be compared to someone then it should be to the odious “pick-up artist” Neill Strauss. That sinister cockwomble, like other “pick-up artists” attempts to seduce a woman by first undermining her self-esteem with insults – this move is known as “the neg.” With the way Trump talks about America, how broken she is, how pathetic she has become, how only he can possibly fix her, it becomes clear that Trump is trying to “neg” the entire country.
Ninety-seven more nights trying to sleep and hoping he doesn’t infect your dreams. Ninety-seven…