Lock Him Up!
In a straitjacket, in a padded cell, in a nuthouse........
Yesterday, I sat down with old friends for a lunch of mussels and beer. And then some more beer. And then after that, we had some dessert beers. Because as professional journalists, we’re obligated to day drink. (It’s in the guild bylaws.) And besides, the only way to get through our apocalyptic news cycles these days is half-in-the-bag. But we weren’t even two sips in before we started talking crazy talk. Or rather, we started talking about President Trump. Which is one and the same.
The pressing issue of the moment — there is always a fresh, self-generated catastrophe in Trumplandia — was whether he was going to invade Greenland. And I feel as ridiculous writing those words as he should feel causing me to write them. But alas, only one of us is capable of experiencing shame. Of course, when I woke up this morning to catch Trump’s remarks to world leaders in Davos, he was already backing up the taco truck, assuring his audience that he wasn’t going to take Greenland by force, after repeatedly suggesting that he would. (How dare anyone take him at his word? Haven’t they heard he lies a lot?) Evidencing all the deflated charisma of a sack of laundry — one that looks like it had been smeared in orange pancake makeup applied by a paint roller — Trump’s manner suggested to the rest of the world, which he seems to think exists solely to field and react to his whims, that they should be grateful he’s decided not to start a war of aggression against a harmless island, or to blow apart a 76-year-old NATO alliance, or to destabilize the international order. I swear I could see people checking their phones, looking for Google translations of how to say “f-ck you very much” in Greenlandic. (It’s “illit assut fucke,” for the record.)