The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

These are, admittedly, strange times in the Social Republic of America. We’re waiting to be great again and this week we’re anticipating the decision regarding whether Brett Kavanaugh should be confirmed to the Big Bench. Partisanship has reached a boiling point judging by the spluttering screed of Sen. Lindsay Graham in a spirited attack on ‘you people’, meaning his colleagues on the other side of the aisle. Kavanaugh shouted a conspiratorial diatribe at everyone from liberals to the Clintons, a sad beginning for what might become this era’s new judicial restraint.

Evidently the playbook now requires undermining the legitimacy of the press, attacking our own government and the government of our allies, ripping up trade treaties and treaties to keep nuclear weapons contained, using the powers of Congress and the President to attack perceived enemies, something we frowned on in the Nixon years but apparently is fine now. What’s really intriguing in these vitriolic times is the President’s embrace of folks like Russia’s Putin and the Philippine’s Duterte, totalitarian strongmen bereft of law and decency, but who Trump nevertheless touts as worthy of emulation. Try to imagine Obama channeling Joseph Stalin. Or George Bush writing Valentine Day cards to Khomeini. You think things aren’t upside down, inside out, think again.

This week Donald fell in love. Not with Melania, not with Ivanka, not with Lindsay Graham (although I think he may have a crush), but with none other than Little Rocket Man, who, sez the Prez, wrote him a wonderful letter, an admiring letter, a letter that was nothing less than a work of art. You want Trump’s respect, praise him. You want his admiration, suck up to him. You want his love, tell him how great a leader he is. He’ll return the favor. You don’t even have to have incriminating evidence of prostitutes pissing on his bed, he’ll return your love.

The man just wants approbation. He wants you to say he’s not just okay, he’s the most okay of anyone, ever, anywhere, anytime. If we had god kings, he would be ours. If we build him a pyramid, he would find it in his heart to forgive us. If we chisel out Lincoln’s ugly visage on Mt. Rushmore and replace it with his, the world would be given to you. If you took out the other three losers and renamed the mountain Mt. Me, no door would ever be closed to you. All he wants is your love. Love is all he needs. In the meantime he has to find it in all the wrong places.

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