In the musical “The Wiz,” the Wicked Witch of the West sweeps into her owned-and-operated sweat shop and menaces her workers with the song, “Don’t Nobody Bring Me No Bad News” (“If we're going to be buddies, Better bone up on the rules, 'Cause don't nobody bring me no bad news.”) Nobody does, and the Wicked Witch ultimately suffers terminal meltdown.
The song fits Donald Trump like a hand in a Barbie glove. He doesn’t want to hear, and won’t accept, any fact that makes him unhappy, and facts at odds with his inflated vision of himself are at the top of the list.
On the one hand, it’s oddly comforting that the bad news Trump hasn’t wanted to hear thus far are trivialities, statistics at odds with his ego-driven vision of himself as the King of the Measurable Universe. But what about the 1555 days that separate us from a return to sanity? What does Trump’s aversion to “bad news” portend for decision-making on matters that really matter? Will the final filter on every decision be whether the result is more likely than not going to make Trump look “fantastic?” Worse, will those charged with briefing him on the state of his initiatives, or, for that matter, the world, omit facts that may trigger a Trumpian tantrum or a Wicked Witchian meltdown?
Prior to last November 8, we treated these questions as “what if’s” that made us shudder and that we pushed from our conscious thoughts because, thank God, there was no way we’d have to confront them. But now we do, and much as we’d like it to be otherwise, we’re in for some very bad news.