Trump, Having It All

WE NOW KNOW, because the true representative of Christ on Earth, (Trump, not the Pope) told us, that Donald J.Trump, aka Joshua ben Joseph, has perfect morals. He told us so just yesterday. Coupled with his assertion that he is the most intelligent person who ever lived, and we have the world's greatest genius and moral entity, if not narcissist, all rolled into one big rotund mound of adipose. Not since Leonardo Da Vinci has such a magnificant talent graced the face of the Earth. Look for the great one to complete the cirlce of attained wisdom by becoming a Bodi satva without even bothering to look for it by roaming far and wide with disciples in tow, or to wait for it while sitting beneath a bodi tree, like Gautama Siddhartha. Although his majestic lordship has not made any proclamations concerning his world class athletic or musical ability, just wait, you can see it coming. Trump could sit down at a Steinway and play Mozart without missing a note or beat. He would doutbless contend well from the pitching mound against, or strike out Susuki Ichiro, looking, probably by throwing a screw ball. Move over Babe Ruth, move over Vladimir Horowitz, take a hike Einstein. Genius, athleticism, and morality, we learn, concentrate themselves in mounds of fat, perhaps for purposes of nourishment. You might think that genius and righteousness would prefer to insinuate themselves into at least a minimal amount of muscle tissue and grey matter encased in a cranium, but that turns out to not be the case with the world's most nearly perfect human. Trump has already been a successful television star. He has not yet discovered, or exploited, his greatest talent of all, although he has unwittingly implemented it to a degree. It is comedy. He could easily do stand up, and instantly join the ranks of Johnny Carson, Mel Brooks, Jay Lenno, Carol Burnett, Lucille Ball, Benny, Burns - His monologue would be drier than the driest martini, and he wouldn't even know he was joking, that indeed, he is the joke. At length you begin to wonder about Donald Trump's upbringing. Richie Rich, bow tie and knee britches, smugly sneering out the tinted limo window at all the other,less privileged, less talented kids on the way to the most exclusive private school on snob hill. Never mind his poor grades, third from the bottom at Wharton. He didn't want to show up the other students. Exactly how in hell or psychosis anybody can possibly turn out to be such a thorough mess is a subject that can and probably does fill psychology and psychiatry texts. We know that he was rasied by and doting mother and a cold, distant father, always a lethal combination. Was it simultaneously too much and too little love? When Trump slunk into office agaisnt the wiches of a clear majority of voters, books started rolling off the press about him, as authors by the drove began taking advantage of best seller opportunities, and whipped out Trump monographs by the bushel. Somewhat curious in my extreme post election depression, seeking understanding to assuage grief, I read probably fifteen or twenty of them before I noticed myself sliding into a sort of catatonic, neurotic state. Patterns emerged. Most evident was that nobody who wrote about Trump liked him. No hagiography emerged from the collective opus. Laura Trump, a psychologist with a doctorate, reaffirms all of our worst fears and assumptions about her uncle; that he is a deeply troubled mental health patient, for whom extensive psychotherapy would be prescribed, but probably insufficient. For some of our worst cases there is no recourse except institutional care, mind altering medication, sedation, and a room full of toys with which the inmates are free to play, just as much as they want.