This year the American citizen will be given the choice of voting for their country to become the laughing stock of the world or abstaining, leaving that privilege to others. And in either case, dropping the rest of us in it.
Currently, the only seriously progressive and intelligent candidate faces a giant impediment: you can say the preceding about him. The excitement which initially propelled old man Bernie is coming to a creaking stand-still. It is Sanders’ very peers – the over 60s – which have proved the least convinced, and it is this decrepit bunch which will fill the largest number of voting stations on November 8th. (Senility, after-all, is one of the leading causes of conservatism.)
So what has the great American democratic system thrown up instead? A small man for whom tongue twisters must be debilitating and a woman who can claim to being one of the world’s more infamous crooks before moving into the Oval Office.
But I’m getting ahead of myself. In the typical British fashion, I’ve looked beyond my nose toward the West and guffawed at our provincial, hopelessly idealistic cousins. Not only is this type of commentary ungallant, it’s usually wholly self-deceiving given the stupidity which passes as thought in this country – “well I wouldn’t want the queen’s job”. Usually.
This election race matters because Americans will not merely be choosing their president, they’ll be choosing the world’s president. Leaving the relatively safe, albeit blood-soaked hands of Obama, we speed toward rising seas, the spectre of nuclear catastrophe and war, war, war. The driving seat will be occupied by either (did you ever think we would be seeing this?) Donald Trump or Clinton II. Given his much publicized deep, personal connection with the number 1, I’ll start with him.
This is a man who both speaks at a 4th Grade level and balances a doormat on his head, and yet, is managing to command the love and respect of HUGE numbers of people (to borrow an adjective). Trump goes up to the podium day after day, tilts his head stroke-ways, adopts a convincing likeness of Mr Toad and speaks to those convened as if they were 8 year-olds. And, keeping the journalists badgered into attending these rallies to one side, the audience seems to sincerely enjoy it. He’s repetitive, abrasive and about 5000 miles away from anything that could conceivably be considered eloquent, but, somehow, it works. Here is how you make Georgian farmers’ wives and those ultra-hetero Joes damp down there:
“We are out of control… We have no idea whose coming into this country. We have no idea if they love us or hate us. We have no idea if they want to bomb us.”
On foreign policy,
“I dealt with Gaddafi. I rented him a piece of land. He paid me more for one night than the land was worth for two years, and then I didn’t let him use the land. That’s what we should be doing. I don’t want to use the word ‘screwed,’ but I screwed him. That’s what we should be doing.”
Sometimes the shortest ones are the best,
“I will be… the greatest jobs president that god ever created, let me tell you.”
This is what success sounds like in America? A silver spoon which bears the scratches of multiple bankruptcies and smeared, as it is, by incestuous innuendo. C’mon now, you’re just making it easy for us.
Many have drawn the red string of incrimination between the portraits of Donald and Adolf in recent weeks (helped by Trump’s ex revealing the collection of Third Reich biographies at his bedside). It’s a lazy comparison, sure, but not quite as lazy as what we’re accustomed to. I took some time out to visit some neo-Nazi sites (where Self-pity and Self-aggrandizement go to make very ugly babies) to read transcripts of speeches given by the Fuhrer, and I can report: whatever else you may say of him, he was capable of talking in sentences.
If you have been fortunate enough (and sufficiently un-Muslim) to actually see one of these spectacles in person you’d know that the hollow, wheezy cheers result not from lack of numbers. It has more to do with the, ahem, advanced age of those in the stands: Trump’s ranks are grey. This demographic knows its History – hell, they’ve lived it, and this experience has clearly taught them one thing if nothing else: they rather be spoken to as if none of that happened. As if they were children. (Those who fear the Civil War’s second half can at least be glad that the side reaction takes will also be taken by cataracts and arthritic knees.)
It’ll be no surprise to state this at this juncture, Trump isn’t quite hitting my G-spot: I. Just. Don’t. Get. It. Perhaps Steinbeck’s words can offer some explanation, “I guess the trouble is that we [the United States] don’t have any self-admitted proletarians. Everyone is a temporarily embarrassed capitalist.” Someday, they think, that’ll be my name shitting on the skyline.
A part of me, now a faint glimmer, still believes that Trump is doing all this for a laugh. That he’ll step in front of a television camera at the twilight of election season and say, “seriously, you losers fell for that?!” and laugh himself into a coma. But then, even then, Ted Cruz will just come along and sweep up the flock and, before you could say “/pol/ isn’t going to like this”, we’ll have the prospect of fascism all over again.
Clinton. Clint-on. What other than sickly stomachs has that name produced? (One or two illegitimate children, and dead Africans aside.) Just when you thought matters couldn’t possibly get worse, Hillary, the spawn of ill-gotten gains and tutored in the dark arts by Tricky Dickie himself, takes the stage. Yes, it was in Nixon’s Republican Party, and later being among the first to examine his secret tapes, that she finely honed her veneers.
Even the staunch Clintonite Chris ‘big-mouth’ Matthews is suggesting that Hillary shares more in common with Dick than their mutual acceptance of sexual assault,
“Most politicians want you to know everything about them. They do like the fact that [there is] public exposure. She is the absolute opposite, like Nixon was. The exact opposite of that.”
And the comparisons needn’t end there. Both Clinton and Nixon participated in character assassination, the first being central to the intimidation and slander campaign of Bill’s many victims. Both Clinton and Nixon exploited mass human disaster for their own megalomaniacal reasons – the former in Kosovo, the other in Indochina. Both Clinton and Nixon have lent their ear to that serpent Kissinger (he’ll outlive us all at this rate, but then, do demons ever expire?). Clixon is war-mongering, conniving and, perhaps most irritating of all, incompetent. (Try to remember that it was she who fucked up health care reform so astoundingly in the 90’s when she’s warning voters that Sanders’ll do just that.)
Many, including Trump, have been attacked in turn for attacking Hillary “personally”. In other words: by drawing attention to her marriage to a serial rapist. Underhanded, they say, irrelevant they add for good measure. Well, call me old fashioned but I think that this bit of trivia really says something about the She-Clinton’s morals.
But she’s a woman, cries CNN, surely that makes her a friend to all women and a symbol of the feminist ideal to challenge Maggie herself? Feminism is not sinisterly threatening the rape victims of My Man, that, as the street-savvy know, is called being a dependable bottom bitch. And sending the signal to nearby hotshots that you’ll do anything if there’s enough zeroes attached.
For more see vox.com
To remind the electorate of Hillary’s all-consuming hunger for power is not political opportunism, it’s a warning in the shape of a diagnosis. Rapist enabler in the bedroom, whore on the (Wall) street. So, which makes you shudder more, her personal or professional life? Is there even a difference?
With all of that she still acts, and is treated, as if she’s owed the presidency.
Do we need any more evidence that, just as clinical depression is irrational and, indeed, a disorder, those who prepare optimistically for the future are equally – if not more – unhealthy? Shouldn’t the psychiatrists be setting their heavy gazes on those grinning, rather than grimacing, at this freak show and be asking, “what the hell is wrong with you?”