Donald Trump Has the Soul of a Killer

Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump speaks to supporters at his primary election night event at his Mar-a-Lago Clu
Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump speaks to supporters at his primary election night event at his Mar-a-Lago Club in Palm Beach, Fla., Tuesday, March 15, 2016. (AP Photo/Gerald Herbert)

So, another loser was voted off the island. From the starting seventeen, three remain: Donald Trump and Ted Cruz, two of the most obviously despicable humans we've ever been exposed to, and John Kasich, a guy with the low-bar skill of hiding his detestability behind a veneer of civility.

Abhor him as we may (okay, as we one hundred percent do), we must give Chris Christie -- last seen disappearing up Trump's rectum -- props for whacking Marco Rubio, who otherwise could have been a plausible if wildly unqualified figure for establishment conservatives to unite behind. How perfect it was that this vapid robot -- so Quayle-like in his callowness that his name should be spelled Marcoe Rubioe (Google "potatoe" if that makes no sense to you) -- became a national joke exactly as Quayle did: choking to death in a debate (Google "no JFK"). And then, when it briefly seemed that he might have managed to survive his meltdown, a surge of hubris gave him the thrillingly misguided confidence to challenge the front-runner in his natural habitat: the gutter.

Donald Trump has said or done in this campaign hundreds -- and in his life thousands, if not hundreds of thousands, if not millions -- of things any single one of which would have ended the political career of any other presidential candidate in my lifetime. Not one to let the slightest slight go unretaliated against, let alone Rubio's insinuation that his stubby little fingers were indicative of another undersized appendage, His Preternatural Crassness took the opportunity during a presidential debate to address this pressing issue. "I guarantee you there's no problem," Trump reassured the nation about the size of his penis. "I guarantee it."

And while there was, and continues to be, much tittering that the uncouth boor actually Went There, the incontrovertible notion that such grotesque vulgarity forever disqualified him from being taken seriously as any kind of respectable public figure, let alone as a possible President, went unuttered basically everywhere in the increasingly pernicious mainstream media. Of course, there's no point in complaining about the noxious role of the media in all of this because they're just doing their job -- which, these days, is to not do their job.

Here's the simple truth that the media will not tell you, though you've likely sussed it out on your own. Donald Trump has the soul of a killer. Look at him. Listen to him. He wants you to know it. "I love the old days," he waxes nostalgic, assuming, as one of history's hugest narcissists would, that everyone he's talking to is exactly like him and we all live to inflict pain. "You know what they used to do to guys like that [a protester] when they were in a place like this [a political rally]? They'd be carried out on a stretcher, folks. It's true. ... I'd like to punch him in the face, I'll tell ya."

Lest you missed the nuance, he does not suffer critics gladly. Fondly recalling an incident in which several of his droogs descended on another protester, he gushes, "It was a beautiful thing." He can't stop telling us how much he wants to hurt people. The great paradox about this depraved man is that, despite his pathological desperation to be loved, the main thing he needs us to know about him is that he despises everyone who isn't him (and himself most of all). Money seems not to have bought him happiness.

To think that there is even the remotest possibility that this egomaniacally murderous psychopath could become President of the United States is to consider that predictions of the End Times may have been accurate and we may be about to see them. "Is there anything more fun than a Trump rally?" he asks his frenzied fans. Because, really, what could humans possibly find more enjoyable than gathering together in a huge crowd to hit and hate?

But here, based on conversations I've had with several people who have never in their lives voted for a Democrat, is the beauty of the Ugliest American getting the nomination of a party that should change its mascot from the elephant to the lemming. Many Republicans, even some who have hated her for a quarter-century and have spent the last eight years drooling at the thought of casting their ballots against her, are going to go to the polls on November 8th, look at the choice between her and a man who by that time will probably be defecating in public, and -- with complete obliviousness to the irony that all their party had to show for its decades of ignorance, intolerance and greed was a candidate that they loathed even more than her -- vote for Hillary Clinton.