That will be the question on everybody's lips in twenty years--the question that will make even the millenials feel ancient, as they slouch toward fogie-dom and are called upon explain to their grandchildren the mysteries surrounding the rise of Trump. Who will believe that Cheeto Jesus was a clear and present danger, a nuclear submarine in the still dark ocean that was the first few decades of the millennium? "That Donald Trump was the two-headed illegitimate love-child of Hitler and Satan," they'll snort angrily. Little kids--kids who will gather around them at Thanksgiving to hear about the good old days--will gaze upon grey-haired millenials with genuine surprise and think that they're making up stories: old-person-diaper stories about an improbable world. A world where phones were connected to walls. A world where you had to use a dial up connection with a modem to actually download porn.
For those of you who have been living under a rock, Donald Trump's so-called bid for Presidency is on the ropes with gaff after gaff after gaff. There's the bereaved father of a veteran killed during military action (Trump mocked him shamelessly). There's the man who gave him a purple heart (Trump took it and turned it into a joke). There is the baby whom he kicked out of a rally (Trump turned the mother into a comedy routine). There are the nudie pictures of his wife, our potential first lady, doing softcore lesbian sex poses with a Swedish woman for a French Men's magazine (But this is simply slut-shaming so I will not hold this against him because Melania is not running for public office).
How will we explain the last few sputters of the Donald Trump campaign to future generations? It's like the last few years of Amy Winehouse were condensed into a few episodes of an HBO mini-series with a change of wigs and a spray tan. There is such an embarrassment of riches, of blunders, of mistakes in the day-to-day operations of this campaign that the ineptitude is too numerous to list--a literal Vegas buffet of improbabilities of every shape and size. As a writer, I'm not used to these kinds of riches. I'm not used to the waterfall of Lobster Tails and Prime Rib and Oysters and Cheesecake--all smothered in truffle oil. I'm not used to the miles of Veggies and Carbs and Starches--all presented on marble and brass and glass. I'm not accustomed to the conveyor belt of Trump's mouth that keeps pumping out a cornucopia of bite size sound bites: chicken nuggets of racism, word salads of xenophobia and chocolate cakes of molten trashiness.
Apparently, neither are the legions of Republicans who at one point supported him. Many have withdrawn their backing. Those Koch brothers--they have decided to opt out on this round at the political buffet, their stomachs groaning and churning with the heartburn of a thousand suns. Those Republican Presidents of times past--they didn't even show up to the Convention and pushed their chairs away from the gravy train that is the diabetes of a Trump diet. Hell, Mitt Romney is now a born-again Vegan with all the self-righteousness that Vegans can bring to the ill-thought-out dietary choices of other people.
Just about the entire world, except the lunatic fringe that enjoy the WWF spectacle of the Trump circus sideshow, have turned their backs on the freakish sword-swallowing feats of Cheeto Jesus. To verify this, I have been engaging in acts of cyberstalking: Sometimes I will visit the Facebook walls of friends who were ardent Trump supporters--friends who would write me nasty private messages about how Trump was going to change this country, how he was not afraid to speak his mind, how he was a real businessman and would Make America Great Again. I don't see much active support on their walls anymore. Suddenly, they have become political eunuchs--Switzerland during World War II. Suddenly, it's all crickets. But they have yet to eat their words.
So Trump is out. He is as out as Sarah Palin was when she hardly spent half a term as governor of Alaska. Trump is so out, he is as out as a float full of drag queens at San Francisco Pride. But this leaves us all one problem--a problem that will haunt us in future years. How to describe the cray-cray that was the Trump campaign to another generation that will find Trump as remote from their reality as Hitler has become to the Millenial generation. For sure as shooting, there will be another Cheeto Jesus resurrected from that pile of potato chips at the great buffet of American politics.
What will we say to the semi-circle of young kids who will huddle around us to hear stories after that long Thanksgiving at the nadir of our lives? I have no answer to this. I don't know. All I can tell you at this moment in time is this single fact--a fact as real as a ketchup stain on a silk tie made by workers in Communist China for a loudmouth that wants to bring work back from abroad the very jobs he took away from the dwindling lower classes and Make America Great Again: Trump is done. Cheeto Jesus is a pig under a heat lamp--orange and crackling with an apple in his mouth. His wig has come undone and the spray tan is running down his cheek like a single tear drop. Stick a fork in him, my fellow Americans. Dig in. Dig in. He's done.