The drama queen on the balcony, on steroids


So what happens when the would-be dictator not only denies the Covid-19 but turns the White House into a virus hot spot?

“Beats the hell out of me,” Swamp Rabbit said. “I’m still wondering why them so-called doctors would let an infected guy leave the hospital to go on a joyride.”

I tried to imagine how it went down. “Trump probably said something like ‘Yo Doc, give me a double dose of that dexamethasone or you’re fired. I’ve got to ride around and wave to my fans.”

Swamp Rabbit nodded. “They let him stand on that White House balcony and tear off his mask and pose like a dictator with a breathing problem.”

Benito Trumpolini,” I said, quoting some wag who weighed in after the photo op.

My swamp neighbor disagreed. “He looked more like Evita. Mussolini didn’t wear all that makeup.”

“The orange makeup means he’s not sick anymore,” I explained. “He said ‘Maybe I’m immune.'”

We agreed that Donald Trump is immune — immune to honesty, irony, conscience, compassion, logic, good advice, good taste, common sense and common decency. That he’s a loathsome old shit with no redeeming qualities who just happens to have the most powerful job in the country.

“Them mainstream mediums knew he was a shit the first time he ran for president,” Swamp Rabbit said. “How come they made like he was a normal candidate instead of saying he wasn’t fit to run? How come they’re still pretending this is a normal election?”

That’s easy, I told him. A freak like Trump comes along once in a lifetime. All eyes are drawn to him. He’s great for cable news ratings and even newspaper sales. The talking heads will milk his freakishness all the way to the election, and they’re hoping he refuses to concede so they can milk it into the winter and beyond.

“He’s hopped up on them steroids now,” Swamp Rabbit said. “They might get their wish.'”

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