Donald Trump has been admitted to Walter Reed hospital “as a precaution”. More likely, the big ol’ bullying coward has been taken by a fear of death — he’s suddenly realizing that the Secret Service cannot protect him, nor can Mitch McConnell, and that he could become one of the statistics that he treats with so little regard.
Awww, poor little preznit. Cheer up! Here is a happy song for him.
Personally, I’m torn, because my humanist values tell me every life is valuable and we should do all we can to alleviate human suffering and even a creature as contemptible as Trump should have a right to basic human dignity…but at the same time, I want him to suffer long and terribly, I want him intubated, I want him to emerge from his ordeal a month from now drained and broken and weeping and helpless to discover that he’d lost the election by a landslide and that his creditors have snatched away all his assets and that the law is serving him a stack of subpoenas and that he has lost everything his greedy, amoral heart thinks is precious. I want him to discover that his trusted inner circle of friends have all been laid low by his own stupid, unconscionable policies. I want karma. I want retributive justice. I want what Damon Young wants.
Normally, I detest those stupid, lazy political cartoons that emerge after the death of a well-known figure, showing them arriving in an afterlife, but I’d make an exception for one that showed a screaming, feculent corpse of an orange man rocketing downwards, jet-propelled by a column of fire shooting out of his ass, with a splashdown in a flaming pit of feces. No pearly gates for that guy. Get to work on that, cartoonists. Just in case.
I feel bad for feeling this way, but the heart wants what the heart wants, and I have to acknowledge my feelings.