While I bathed in my own sweat and nastiness on the couch yesterday, working my way through Day Two of COVID after my rapid test came back positive, I was shivering, achy, and as mentioned, a vile sight to witness, as I watched our felonious President fill his followers with poison, with lies, with this false-sense of rebellion, turning rabid minds more rabid, more toxic, more deadly. More stupid, really.
Nothing new to see, I was telling myself as my armpits soaked through my T-shirt.
President Hack loves the tough-guy talk, loves playing himself off as a “gangster,” which is absolutely absurd. Drives me nuts when I hear him referred to as such. Trump is no gangster. Let’s get that straight. If he wasn’t President and insulated and you were able to get up into his face, he would 100 percent crawl into his fat neck and hide from a real fight. That’s the man Don Trump is. He’s no tough guy, and I doubt he has either ever thrown a punch or taken one to the face in his life.
I have a friend that got busted for a federal crime years ago for a scheme he pulled with a couple other dudes. Two of the criminals chirped like birds when the authorities came calling, giving up the names of those involved, trying to save their own bony asses. Not my buddy. My buddy shut his mouth, did his three years time in the big house, ratted on no one and now thrives in life, running a very successful legitimate business. The two other rats — now ghosts.
That, folks, is gangster. And Trump, again, is no gangster. He’s a fraud and a wussa-dog.
A few days after Biden won the election, I was sucking back a few with my big brother down at the beach, enjoying a rare warm fall day on the coast. While I railed on about Biden’s win and how we as a country can now try to regain some semblance of a Republic, my brother was anything but pacified by Biden’s victory.
In fact, he was more concerned than ever for the safety of our country.
“Trump’s gonna burn the place down before he goes and everyone in his way,” my bro told me.
I dismissed his rhetoric as paranoia and went on with our good time.
But, as it turns out, he was right. Trump is trying to burn us all to the ground – you, me, our kids, wives, daughters, sisters, our democracy, our decency, our sense of love and community – anyone in order to save his own orange ass, including his own legion of lackeys. Why? Because Trump sees his future, and folks, it’s black. It’s as dark as night. It’s filled with harrowing days, disease, divorce, dissension, unexpected visits by the reaper, loneliness and convictions. He’s a rat. He’s a lightweight. He’s a spray tan can of utter sissery. And he can’t stand up like a real gangster and do his time like a real man.
Because he’s not. He’s a child.
And that’s not hyperbole. You’re seeing the proof before your eyes. In fact, what his followers did yesterday was so much more ballsy than Donald Trump could ever handle. You think he would ever muster up the nuggets to charge unarmed into the Capitol building? You think that soft-serve piece of privilege could handle that level of madness? Please, he would cower and hide in his limo, shouting, “Roll em’ up. We’re out of here.”
Last night, as I fingered a long line of puss and fever sores off my tongue, I watched a video of the White House, literally, gone black. A rare if ever sighting. Not a single light was on in the house. No movement. No nothing. Of course, I said, coughing a dollop of phlegm onto my chest. Trump was doing what the real Don Trump does – he hides from consequence and lets his friends and enemies fight the fight that he started, as he feverishly masturbates in the Oval Office, watching it all unfold, cowering, cowering, cowering.
That’s just so gangster.
Rob Azevedo can be reached at firstname.lastname@example.org