“We have it totally under control. It’s one person coming in from China, and we have it under control.
“It’s going to be just fine.” – Donald Trump. January 22nd, 2020. Davos. It’s on videotape.
Trump Internment Syndrome (TIS) has been defined – by many people with natural ability – as the dark dread we could’ve been out of the house already by now if our Dear Leader hadn’t sacrificed a month or two while pretending there’s nothing to worry about.
Geezus. Nobody could have seen this coming. Ha. I laugh.
Fuck. I chortle.
I’d guffaw but I am wearing a mask.
Find myself telling folks, Trump’s behavior is no surprise to me. Also, have to explain, anybody paying any attention thirty years ago could see he was incapable of managing a Girl Scout cookie drive without getting arrested for multiple felonies. Think Non-Disclosure Agreement with a Brownie; settlement paid with somebody else’s money.
If you are locked up in your own house and you voted for Trump, it’s your own fault.
If you still support Trump, the virus is not your biggest problem.
We can’t let the President be worse than the virus.
“No, I don’t take responsibility at all.” Trump, March 13.
“When somebody is the President of the United States, the authority is total. And that’s the way it’s got to be. It’s total.” Trump, April 13.
There is something quintessentially Trumpian about the claim of total authority and zero responsibility.
He alone can save us, he insists, but don’t blame him if he doesn’t.
I published a newspaper column on July 11, 1990. Started out like this.
It was a very weird week.
Read my lips. Very weird. No lie.
One sweet moment came when the bankers put Donald Trump on an allowance. He’s limited – limited – to just $450,000.00 PER MONTH for his expenses.
And he now has to take out the garbage and mow the lawn.
Fork-tongued George Bush The First admitted his selection of Little Danny Quayle – to pilot the Hubble telescope – may have been ill conceived.
Jesse Helms called the choice “obscene” and threatened to hold his breath until he received assurances the vice president wouldn’t go potty while orbiting above the Bible Belt.
Mealy-mouthed John Frohnmayer, the Neville Chamberlain of the art world, was in town to tell the we’re-so-cool City Club why artists’ rights should be pre-empted by pandering politicians.
Because the public is supposedly demanding its money go for black velvet paintings of Elvis.
Above the waist.
Maybe I should quit trying to simultaneously chew gum and pedal.
I fell off my bike for the third time in the last year.
Landing yet again on my helmet.
The good news is, I can now play in the six-foot-and-under basketball league and my car seems to have more headroom.
“They’re trying to scare everybody . . . cancel the meetings, close the schools — you know, destroy the country,” he told his guests that weekend. “And that’s OK, as long as we can win the election.”