I'm a word guy.

Never made any apologies for that. Not likely I'm going to start now.

First, because, for as along as I can remember, I've been of the school that there is really is no such thing as too much knowledge or too much ability.

Second, because when the part of the brain that accesses the "fair is fair" part of my psyche kicks in, I feel a certain responsibility, even obligation, to honor the hard work and selflessness of countless English teachers in my educational history who, for very little reward other than the satisfaction of a job well done (and mail some of that into the electric company sometime and see how long the flat screen stays lit up) did their best, while I was in their academic charge, to instruct me, encourage me, even nurture me to be as articulate, expressive, even erudite as I was capable of being.

Clearly, the fact that I just used the words articulate, expressive and erudite in the same sentence is a testament to the contribution of those teachers and their ability to impart into at least a few of their students a vocabulary that runs deeper than your more commonly heard, everyday, garden variety articulations.

Bursts of brilliance like "hey, wanna catch some lunch?"......"wow, did you, like, catch what Kim said to Khloe last night?'....and a particular favorite of mine, given the depth of intelligence, articulation and erudition that it symbolizes.

"Lock her up."

Which brings me around to the specific word that sent this train of thought chugging out of the station and it's application, or lack there of, in the America of 2017.

The word, in a few moments.

The application?

Actually, not so much.

At least, not in the America of 2017.

The temptation resisted in that last sentence was to use another term that gets bandied about pretty regularly these days. A term that I use whenever, and only when, it's necessary to make a point like the point at the end of the line of this thought train.

Trump's America.

First, the term itself implies an ownership that neither technically, nor factually, correct.

Second, the term itself makes my asshole pucker.

How's that for erudition?

This past week, I had the occasion to guest host on statewide talk radio and, among other timely topics, addressed the social climate in the country in the America of 2017. I related the recollections of television host Megyn Kelly, specifically the horrific and hateful voice mail messages she received after the infamous campaign debate in which she had the gall, the temerity, to question Trump on the subject of misogyny.

"I got all these voicemails", Kelly shared, "saying you're a real cunt...and there was one", Kelly quotes," that said nobody gives a damn about misogyny....somebody actually said that to me," Kelly said.

A sexual harassment advocate and attorney on Kelly's show replied "...we are at a tipping point of a movement and America is really grapping with this, coming to terms with the fact there is a problem."

To my own listening audience last week, I added this.


I'm  going to go you one better…..Sexual harassment is rooted in an unacceptable abuse of power………….but that abuse of power has become epidemic in the culture in general…..

social media, talk radio: the “freedom” to say whatever you want whenever you want with NO REGARD WHATSOVER for civility, courtesy, respect or even simple human decency.

Megyn Kelly got voicemails calling her a cunt.

When I guest host these shows, inevitably out of the many positive or respectfully disagreeing comments or posts or texts, etc, there are crude, rude and unacceptable ones…..

AND THE attitude and tone of that type of behavior starts at THE TOP…with a man who got to the White House by belittling people, denigrating people, insulting people, behavior that continues to THIS DAY and the only thing supporters and fans, have to say is “it’s good to have a President who tells it like it is…..

Well, to those of you who like those who tell it like it is….HERE”S HOW IT IS……Life, at least on a surviving in the global world of 2017,  is NOT A grudge match in the WWE…..it is NOT a SUPER BOWL WHERE The team that kicks the other ass the hardest wins, it is NOT a reality show where the bitchiest back stabbers triumph over the less bitchy backstabbers…It is not about hold my beer...or hey, watch this...or aw, hell, I can do that…....IT IS about strategy, knowing when to move and when to not move, when to speak forcefully, or softly or know when to just shut the hell up…Every battle is won or lost before it's fought….that was written thousands of years ago by an Asian warrior and strategist named Sun Tzu……The Art of War……you should take a shot at giving it a read some time…..and you might just discover why your hero Donald’s ghostwriter named his book The Art of the Deal….

All of this circles back to something I’ve spoken on and written on and produced podcasts on for going on two years now….freedom….without…..freedom without accountability, without ability, without responsibility, without regard for anyone or anything but selfish, greedy, immature, moronic self-interest…..and if you’re a part of that group, with that mindset, don’t flatter yourself for a second thinking you’re a part of some great movement or revolution….because you’re not….what you are is a member of a lynch mob…..angry, fearful, desperate, sad, pathetic and more of an enemy to this nation and the principles this nation was bedrock founded on than any Muslim or Jew or Latino or Black that has crossed your path.  

And here’s how those of us who don’t want to be subjected to that hatred and venom and viciousness anymore  put a stop to all of this…..we’re going to delete your posts and your comments, we are going to answer NONE of what you have to say….we are going to turn our backs on you and we have no interest whatsoever in what you want or what you say or what you think…….we don’t have to change your minds……all we have to do…..is make you….irrelevant……..because that’s what you are…………..you want to weigh in? you know where to find me….but I’m a man of my word…abuse the privilege and cross the line…I’ll delete your comment….or I’ll hang up on you….because starting today, what you have to say is IRRELEVENT.

The on air response to my come to Jesus moment was telling.

A few supportive, positive endorsements that, in one form of another, came down to "yeah, what you said".

And from everyone else?

Nothing.

Silence.

Exactly what one expects from blowhards and bullies and cowards who are forced to put up or shut up.

And I'll go you one better on that score, as well.

Were it not for the existence of Twitter....and the almost like clockwork, every three months or so, love me, need me, adore me, worship me, make me feel like less than a hollow shell of a sad, scared, pathetic excuse for a grown man gatherings hilariously referred to as "rallies", here's what the America of 2017 would be hearing from the, term used very, very loosely, current President of the United States.

Nothing.

Silence.

Exactly what one expects from blowhards and bullies and cowards who are forced to put up or shut up.

Like I said at the outset, I'm a word guy.

I read em', I write em', I create em', I print them, I publish them.

I broadcast them.

Here's a word I like a lot. 

That specific word I mentioned earlier I would be sharing with the America of 2017 today.

And by way of sharing it, two thoughts I'm willing to bet any amount of money you'd like to bet.

Donald Trump wouldn't know the meaning of the word if the definition were spelled out for him on a couple of those big placards held up during those almost like clockwork, every three months or so, love me, need me, adore me, worship me, make me feel like less than a hollow shell of a sad, scared, pathetic excuse for a grown man gatherings hilariously referred to as "rallies".

And...

Donald Trump has obviously never seen the classic musical "Singin' in the Rain" starring Gene Kelly.

Dignity.

Always, with dignity.

Not in the America of 2017, kids.

And most certainly, without a whisper of doubt, NOT in that mystical, delusional land of those who don't give a damn about misogyny....or have any use for the cunts who have the audacity to ask reasonable questions.

Trump's America.

"...You Can't Buy M-M-M-M-Memories Like This...."

George Harrison put it best.

He just didn't know, at the time, that he was talking about me.

 

Country music legend Mel Tillis died early Sunday morning, according to a statement from his publicist. He was 85.

Tillis died at the Munroe Regional Medical Center in Ocala, Florida, after battling intestinal issues since 2016, said spokesman Don Murry Grubbs. The suspected cause of death was respiratory failure.

Tillis was a prolific singer-songwriter who penned more than 1,000 songs and recorded more than 60 albums in a career that spanned six decades. Many of those songs were recorded by other country music stars such as Kenny Rogers, George Strait and Ricky Skaggs.

His commercial peak came in the 1970s when he had a string of top 10 hits, including "Good Woman Blues," "Heart Healer" and "Coca Cola Cowboy." In 2007, he was inducted into the Country Music Hall of Fame.

Frankly, it came as a bit of a surprise to me that Mel's passing got the kind of press that it received.

Not so much because there was any real legitimate claim to the idea that his career and his passing weren't worthy of note, but in a culture that is saturated and/or obsessed with Trump tweets and Kardashian navel gazings and "what have you done for me lately" now translates out to "what have you done for me in the last five...no, wait, make that three...no, wait, make that two seconds" , it was surprising, and gratifying, that Mel's farewell did make the box filled with the ALSO IN THE NEWS stuff online.

And that saves me the time needed to go into great detail about who he was and what he accomplished because you can now log on to dozens of places and check all that out.

While I spend a few minutes sharing what part he played in my own life.

1975. I was a former assistant gas station attendant/ grocery store manager/ ink pen salesman in New Orleans who wrote songs on the side, played in a respectable enough garage band and indulged in the fairly stereotypical dream of fame and fortune as a singer/songwriter. Said dream had brought me and my band mates to Nashville, wives and babies in tow, to work and play hard together to achieve that dream.

1979. I was a full time ink pen salesman who wrote songs on the side and whose band mates had long ago returned to New Orleans, wives and slightly older babies in tow, having myself remained behind, wife and oldest, then only, child in for a penny in for a pound, still pursuing the elusive butterfly of song writing success. 

I had, by that time, achieved only a little of that dream. Actually, very little.

Actually, nothing at all.

An inroad or two had been discovered and was being traveled. I had spent enough time knocking around the Nashville streets known, then, as Music Row, the nerve center of the country music recording industry, to have met at least a few people, gotten to know even a few well enough that they acknowledged my hello when we crossed paths, even if they still didn't know who the hell I was or have any particular reason, to their way of thinking, to know.

And I had, through fate, providence, good luck, divine intervention or any one or all of the cosmic forces that move our fates around the game board, managed to meet, and begin writing with, an already established Nashville songwriter whose back story was not at all unlike mine.

Don Earl had been a homicide cop in St Louis, who wrote songs on the side, dreamed of songwriting success and visited Nashville periodically to meet and greet and pitch and hustle, getting to know even a few well enough that they acknowledged his hello when they crossed paths, even if they still didn't know who the hell he was.

In time, though, he converted a few of those who didn't know into those who did. And, in one of those moments screenwriters love to portray, he brought the right song to the right person at the right time and voila! he had written a hit country song for a then up and comer named Barbara Fairchild, said song climbed the Billboard Country Singles chart and found its way all the way to Number One.

Making Don sufficient bucks that he was able to move to Nashville, wife and four kids in two, and set up shop as a full time songwriter.  Couple more hits and voila!, he was back to writing part time, working for a living (although it was his own polygraph business) and trying to get back in to where he once belonged on Music Row.

And then, along came me.

Don showed me the ropes, taught me the tricks, showed me some stuff and we wrote songs. Pretty good songs, the occasional fair to middlin songs and, truth be told, more than a couple of "wow, that's got a smell I've never smelled" songs.

And, because Don could get calls returned and appointments made, we pitched songs. Lots of songs. Lots of places. Accomplishing what 9 out of 10 aspiring songwriters generally accomplish with hard work, perseverance and belief in the dream.

Zip. Zero. Nada.

Having come perilously close to the "who needs this shit" phase so many aspiring writers, actors, dancers, singers, talk show hosts and/or athletes inevitably reach, I found myself, one summer evening, driving to my writing appointment with Don, mumbling to myself about the injustice of writing such great, intricate, clever songs only to be rejected time after time after time after....slowly bubbling up to yet another fever pitch of "fuck em, who needs this shit?"......and, in that moment, as I drove along, my frustration peaked in the form of "you know what? we write great? they say no...we write really good? they say no....then we listen to the radio and what do we hear?....crap...and pap....and ditties....and shit....and....you know what? that's what they want? well, then, fuck em that's what they get"......and by the time I got to Don's house, I walked in, visibly steamed, sat right down without benefit of hello or how are ya, pulled out the guitar and said to Don...."listen to this".....

and I played all I had come up with in my head between mile markers 14 and 29, I 65 Nashville, Tennessee.....

without your love/ I'm Louisiana Lonely

without you here/ I'm bayou blue

I'm make believing / you're comin on home to me

I'll be Cajun crazy / till the day you do

"...wow...", Don offered..."that's really some crap........let's write the rest of it...."

And so we did.

And we did a home demo

And we pitched it.

Zip Zero Nada

Del Bryant, then head of the iconic BMI and son of the iconic songwriters Felice and Boudleaux Bryant took a meeting (because Don still had at least that much clout in his clout account), listened politely and said to us.....

"..hmmm...sounds like you tried to write a clever Cajun thing.....and just missed...."

The next day, I was in full "don't need this shit" mode.

And in one last, only to satisfy myself, blaze of glory move, pulled out my copy of Songwriters Market (a who's who of industry addresses), made a list of ten publishers in Nashville who allowed outside submissions, made ten cassette copies, filled and sealed and mailed ten envelopes with cassette enclosed.

And prepared to get about a life with no song business in it to piss me off.

And I heard nothing.

From nine of the ten publishers.

Three weeks later, I got a phone message from the tenth.

"Scott....this is Jimmy Darrell....I run Mel Tillis' publishing company on West End Avenue and would like to talk to you about his tape you sent me. Could you give me a call back?"

Well, now. I don't know. Lot of heartache under the bridge,. Gonna have to think that over.

For 1.7 seconds.

Fast forward recap: Jimmy liked the song, we liked Jimmy, we signed the song to Mel's company, they did a full blown demo, they pitched the song around to varying degrees of "maybe" and "we'll let you know."

And then, one day, Jimmy called to let me know that Mel had taken a liking to the song.

And had recorded it himself for his upcoming album.

It was part of Mel's album entitled "Southern Rain" released in 1980.

It was never a single and the album was not a huge seller, so there were no Grammys or millions in royalties.....

But I was one officially professional song fucking writer now.

The song went on to be cut a few times by a variety of folks (never a big hit) but good album cuts, etc  and we got some other things cut here and there. The whats and what happened with thems is the stuff of some other time sharing.

The tagline of this story is Mel Tillis made me an officially professional song fucking writer.

When I heard he passed today, I smiled and whispered a little "godspeed...and thanks..."

And suddenly thought about George Harrison.

And a witty line he had spoken in the movie "A Hard Day's Night" speaking to some stage hand who George was warning to stay away from Ringo's drum kit, because Ringo was very fussy about people touching his drum kit......

And I thought what George said about Ringo's drums was exactly what I thought about Mel Tillis and his gracious contribution to my life......give or take a little paraphrasing.

"He looms large in my legend...."

Thanks again, Mel.

Nice looming.

"...At Some Point, It's Not Outside The Realm Of Possiblity That We Will Hear "My Fellow Americans...Pull My Finger..."

Hillary Clinton's new book is entitled "What Happened".

Ordinarily, any non-fiction work would require a title with a little more information in it to entice potential readers to pick up, thumb through and/or get right down to the reading.

In Hillary's case, not even close to necessary.

With one possible exception.

Exception noted momentarily.

At the moment of Hurricane Irma's very unwelcome arrival in the Florida Keys, on its way to barometrically bitch slapping Florida, as a whole, and points/states north, having already having laid waste, metaphorically, and literally, to Cuba and other points Caribbean, Donald Trump hunkered down in front of the teleprompter and issued the following statement.

"My administration is monitoring the situation around the clock, and we're in constant communications with all of the governors, with the state and local officials. We're doing everything possible to help save lives and support those in need. Again, we've never seen anything like this. Together, we will restore, recover and rebuild. We will do it quickly."

"This is a storm of enormous destructive power, and I ask everyone in the storm path to heed all instructions, get out of its way. And government officials, I know you're working so hard, you'll never work like this, and I appreciate also your bravery. Property is replaceable but lives are not, and safety has to come first."

 

 

Those among us with a semblance of oration savvy would have likely begun wrapping it up from there, with a little "with continued commitment" razz and some "can do/will do " matazz and kaboomed the big finish with a dynamic, drum roll, please, "God bless you and God bless America", exit state right.

Donald Trump is not one of those with a semblance of oration savvy among us.

"I think now,", he continued, "with what's happened with the hurricane, I'm gonna ask for a speed up," he said. "I wanted a speed up anyway, but now we need it even more so. So we need to simplify the tax code, reduce taxes very substantially on the middle class, and make our business tax more globally competitive. We're the highest anywhere in the world right now."

 

 

 

Well, gee. There it is.

 

As predictable, and, at the same time, unwelcome, as the hemorrhoid resulting from trying to force something instead of just letting it happen naturally.

 

The inevitable addendum to the address, the rider attached to the rhetoric. 

 

The "this should be the end of my inspirational, presidential reassurance to you and your loved ones, but I'm a blunt tool who wouldn't know inspiration if it came roaring into Mar A Lago at 155 miles per....

 

Oh. Wait.

 

And said addendum translates out a little something like this.

 

"While you're either living in terror that your house is about to blow up around you or your going to see ten feet of water come crashing into your living room, while your primary, primal thoughts are focused on the simple things in life, like, simply keeping you and your family alive, let me tell you about why the visit of this death dealing mass of wind and rain and flood and thunder and lightning and tornadoes is a wonderful opportunity for me tell you how I want to give all my rich crony homies a massive tax break and wrap that tax break up in the same old tired package of 'I'm really doing it all for you' but you are going to get screwed in the end, bet the farm, baby."

 

Or the lanai, of course, depending on your rural versus suburban status there in the Sunshine State.

 

The knee jerk, bet the lanai, go-to response to criticism of Trump's tactlessness ("...paging Miss Conway.....Kellyanne Conway to the stage, please...") will be something along the lines of "The President was offering heartfelt support of those in the storm's path along with The President's assurance that The President believes that The President's administration is the most effective and efficient thing to come along since the Miracle Mop and that The President wants those who will be left devastated by the storm to rest assured that The President really wants them to know that The President believes that they really do deserve the peace of mind that will come from knowing that The President wants the tax code to be repealed and replace....."

Oh. Wait.

Scratch that. Repeal and replace has been taken off the list of do-ables for the time being.

And, if you happen to be in search of a fun, new drinking game, keep an ear out, during those full throated defenses of the Donald, how many times the term "The President" is injected into the flow of the conversation.

It's almost as if they believe, or have been instructed, that the more they say it, the more it legitimizes it. And them. And him.

 

Meanwhile, the knee jerk, bet the lanai and throw in the wicker furniture, go-to response to Trump's tactlessness from the anti-Trump part of the population (all eighty million of them, give or take)  of course, will almost certainly include the standard objection/mild outrage at "politicizing a tragic event".  

And there's probably a case to be made that that's exactly what he's doing.

 

But let's put a pin in that.

Or more effectively and efficiently, let's simply concede that because we all, all of us, Trump friend and foe alike, have long ago been shown, to an immoral certainty, that the man will say anything, as many times as he perceives it needs to be said, to get what he wants when he wants in whatever form he wants.

 

There's a broader theme and a larger point.

 

And that will bring us back to Hillary.

 

Her book is her take on the reasons why she wasn't elected President last November.

 

The use of the catchy and, at the same time, enigmatic, two word title covering both the what...and the why.

 

Pretty sure there's one why that doesn't get a lot of ink in her interpretation.

 

Not so much because she didn't want to include it, necessarily, but because it didn't rank high on her personal radar.

 

When it probably should have.

 

Because from this set of eyes and ears, it was, in the POV of a lot of those in love with their new red caps, numero uno on the list of why.

 

Because Donald is seen a member of the family.

 

A particular kind of member of the family.

We've all got one. Some of us even are one.

Over a year ago, when it became apparent that the Trump candidacy was no longer an irritating, if comic, pebble in the national shoe and was fast turning into a surreal boulder rolling down the mountain, I spent a fair amount of time on my, then, weekly news/talk radio show dealing with the inanity, bordering on insanity, of people who suddenly found obtuse to be a quality they liked in a candidate for office. 

Even the millions of those people who didn't even necessarily know what the word obtuse means.

And time and time, and time, again, throughout the primary season and, then, fall election campaign, as Trump made putting a foot into a mouth the latest sensation sweeping the nation, I heard or, truth be told, endured callers to the show who, when asked how they could possibly continue to support a man so egregiously lacking in the basic social skills, responded with what, to this admittedly jaded, satirical mind, the six word phrase that pays.

"He tells it like it is."

 

It became the predictable go-to response of those who had fallen deeply, almost dreamily, in love with the idea of making America great again.

 

And apparently not just because it came with a cap.

 

My go-to response became equally predictable.

 

"I had an uncle who used to get stinking drunk at family wedding receptions and always somehow found a way to get hold of the microphone. Let me clue you. Telling it like it is isn't always necessarily a virtue."

 

Pretty early on, I could tell, on the scale of this side or that, where my perspective fell.

 

Mostly on deaf ears.

 

Because when you're in love, you're in love, you're in love, you're in love, you're in love with a wonderful guy?

 

You're in love. Whether he's actually a wonderful guy or not.

 

And let's not forget the cap. That sealed a lotta deals.

 

Hillary's book is filled with names, dates, reasons, excuses, rationalizations, justifications, yada, yada about why Donald got to move into the big house on Pennsylvania Ave and she got the gift of time to write a book about why Donald got to move into the big house on Pennsylvania Ave. 

And I haven't read the book. May or may not. Nothing she offers will change my own mind when answering the question implied by the title of that book.

What happened was that enough people in enough states with sufficient Electoral College votes to dramatically plot twist the predicted outcome of the 2016 election dramatically twisted the plot.

For no better reason than they felt some kind of Freud meets Duck Dynasty meets Kafka kinship to a guy who wouldn't know grace or style or class or tact or subtlety or inspiration if it came roaring into Mar-A-Lago at 155 mph.

The kind of blunt tool of a guy who doesn't think twice about showing up stinking drunk at family weddings and grabbing the mic.

The kind of blunt tool of a guy who doesn't think twice about tacking a taxation oration on the end of what was, it turns out, pretty much only in theory, supposed to be a presidential address of support and assurance and...wait for it...leadership.

 

I said, at the outset, that the title of Hillary's book required no lengthy explanations.

 

Because anybody with a pulse knows exactly what she means by "what happened".

 

If there's a nit to pick, it might only be that the punctuation could have gone either way.

 

What Happened. Period. As in "here's what happened".

 

Or...

 

What Happened? Question mark. As in "how in God's infinite universe, could this have happened?"

 

Moot point, in the end. 

 

Because either declaratively, or interrogatively, the bottom line remains.

 

What happened was that we've all got a blunt tool in the family.

 

And family is family.

 

Most especially when it comes with a cap.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

"...If You Think About It, The Whole Crotch Grabbing Thing Is Chock Full Of Irony..."

David Steinberg was a popular, fairly well known comic in the 1970's

In one of his comedy monologues, he shared the story of a guest appearance on The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson which also featured Dr. David Reuben, a physician whose trendy book, "Everything You Always Wanted To Know About Sex (But Were Afraid To Ask)" was a best seller at the time. The book was a candid explanation of sexual activity and terms, fairly "risque" in those days, but written with a wit that made it both entertaining and palatable to those whose moral panties were easily bunched.

Steinberg shared that during the course of Reuben's segment with Johnny, the doctor took the conversation into the subject of masturbation and started out by offering, probably owing to more traditional values and ethics, there were, in fact, many people who experienced the guilt that accompanied the act of self gratification.

Steinberg, ever the humorist and never at a loss for the quick wit, interjected into the chat, "actually, Johnny, the doctor is correct. Personally, though, the reason I feel guilty about masturbation is that I'm so bad at it."

Cue considerable audience applause and laughter.

And now, hold that thought.

Pun unintended, but somehow almost predictable.

During my periodic guest hosting gigs on talk radio, I've pretty much made it standard operating procedure, of late, to steer away from any conversation having to do with Donald Trump. 

Unless he says or does something "catastrophic", even on a Trumpian curve, I tend to choose from the five or six kabillion other crazy things going on in this life at any given moment and let America somehow make itself great again without any help from me or those who listen.

Not so much because the topic of Trump fails to generate calls from opinionated, if not particularly well informed, callers, calls which are, of course, the bread and butter of that particular format, putting the "talk" in talk radio.

Because, given the peculiar, and unique, nature of the Trump personality, unique to both life in general and this particular stint in the Oval Office, we've all, friend, foe, supporter, detractor, Hatfield or McCoy, reached a point where any and all conversations about the Donald tend to very quickly turn into nothing more than variations, most often unpleasant and unproductive variations, on the same, sad, tired theme.

Theme being...he is either God's gift to a nation desperate for bold, new direction and leadership...or he is very likely going to be the catalyst for the end of life on the planet as we have known it.

And, truth be told, in the beginning, it was fun, if a little psychologically exhausting fun, to listen to, and/or participate in, the kind of passionate, emotional, even a little psychotic banter/yammer/yada yada that Trump has inspired on the nation's talk airwaves.

Now, frankly, it has become like being involved in a brutal and contentious divorce, nerves ever raw, feelings ever sensitive, tempers ever flaring and ready, locked and loaded. And any attempts to have a reasonable, measured and meaningful discussion about anything immediately, if not sooner, tailspin into a pouting and/or shouting and/or screaming match.

And while that kind of primal spewing might make for what the consultants refer to as "compelling radio", it is, at least for this radio talk show host, what George Harrison long ago, in another context, referred to as "a drag....a well known drag."

So, the topic of Trump is on my no fly list. Because, at some point, screaming and squealing, even the screaming and squealing of a delighted child on Christmas morning, becomes the psychological equivalent of fingernails on a blackboard.

And compelling so easily, and inevitably, morphs into cringing.

If'n I was ever to, again, begin broaching the subject of he who shall not be named on air, though, I'm thinking I would re-open the Panderer's Box by offering up a point of view I think has been mentioned, in token fashion, from time to time, over the past year and especially since January 20, but, for my money, should, at this point in our story, be front and center, knocking out of the top spot on the charts all those headline generating, water cooler debate inspiring cherries of chat like his tweets and his personal and political tone deafness and his arrogance and his childishness and his petulance and a narcissism on a scale that makes any, even all, of the Kardashian clan look like clones of Mother Teresa.

And that particular point of view that needs to be at the head of a very long line of lacks, cracks and flaws in the presentation of this real estate developer who reality showed himself into a leader of the free world gig, is, like many of those lacks, cracks and flaws, an "ility".

As in accountability, responsibility, fallibility, instability.

No, kats and kiddies, ridin' high on our terrific, just terrific, top ten Trump ility's, here's that sour not sweet, can't be beat, inevitability.

Give it up for....inability.

Steve Chapman writes for the Chicago Tribune. Pretty sure from the tone and tenor of his writings that he doesn't show up all that often at the love and worship rallies nattily attired in wife beater T and Make America Great Again one size fits all, fits even better if you're a skinhead, cap. His not being a Trump cheerleader, though, doesn't automatically diminish, or disqualify, his slant on the situation.

No matter what Kellyanne Conway would, bet the farm, have to say about it.

 He wrote the following, early this past summer.



The people who voted for Trump knew they would be getting a disrupter, a critic of business-as-usual and an enemy of political correctness. Many also realized they were electing a bully and a braggart. 

But they may not have known what they were getting above all else: an incompetent.

There is no other way to explain most of what he has done in the White House. His most formidable opponent couldn't do half as much to foil Trump as Trump himself has done.

His travel policy was rushed out, blocked by courts, withdrawn, revised and blocked again. 

Administration lawyers, who hope to convince the Supreme Court it had no unconstitutional anti-Muslim motives, have been undercut by his tweets, which convey the opposite.

So flagrant is the contradiction that some analysts suspect he has a hidden logic. They speculate that Trump might prefer to lose his ban so he could blame the courts if there were a U.S. terrorist attack carried out by foreigners.

Let me suggest that they are overthinking this. Trump has no record of being deviously clever. He has a record of acting rashly out of ignorance, fury and hubris. He makes needless statements that harm his legal case because he's a self-destructive oaf.

His dismissal of FBI Director James Comey followed that pattern. The White House claimed that Trump fired him at the recommendation of the Justice Department because he botched the investigation of Hillary Clinton's emails.

But Trump then admitted making the decision before he got the Justice memo, saying he objected to Comey's probe of connections between his presidential campaign and the Kremlin. He thus helped bring on a special prosecutor, which could be fatal to his presidency.

Nothing about his performance suggests he has any idea how to handle his office. Trump complains that the Senate is obstructing his nominations. But at last count, he has yet to pick anyone for nearly 80 percent of the positions that require Senate confirmation.

On one issue after another, he has had to flee from ill-considered positions. He said the U.S. might junk its "One China" policy — only to be forced to back down by Chinese President Xi Jinping. He lambasted President Barack Obama's "dumb deal" to take refugees from Australia but eventually decided to honor it.

In April, Trump announced that the following week, he would unveil his tax reform plan. This promise, reported Politico, "startled no one more than Gary Cohn, his chief economic adviser writing the plan. Not a single word of a plan was on paper, several administration officials said." The "plan" the White House released was one page long.

Trump promised to repeal and replace Obamacare but had great trouble getting a bill through the House, partly because he didn't know enough about the substance to negotiate with any skill. The legislation finally approved by the House was pronounced dead on arrival in the Senate. Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell said recently he doesn't know how a repeal bill would get enough votes to pass.

Trump's incompetence is self-perpetuating. A clueless executive is forced to rely on aides who are mediocre — or worse — because better people are repelled. Vacant jobs and poor staff work, aggravated by bad management, lead to more failure, which makes it even harder to attract strong hires — and easier for opponents to get their way.

Expect more of the same. Trump came to office uninformed, unprepared and oblivious to his shortcomings, with no capacity to recognize or overcome them. He is in way over his head, and not waving but drowning.



My own research and writing could, of course, have me piling on with a couple of blogs and/or podcasts worth of backup examples, capable, I have no doubt whatsoever, of proving beyond any shadow of a reasonable doubt, to any jury made up of even marginally functioning human minds that this defendant is guilty of inability in the first degree.

But any further flagellation would be like continued pounding of the meat when its already ready to be cooked. And, of course, additional analysis would, at this point, tailspin us into yet another pouting and/or shouting and/or screaming match.

So, I'll just let Chapman's words serve the purpose of my including them.

And add only two wrap up thoughts.

First, yeah, what he said.

Second, were I to suddenly find myself sitting next to Johnny and Dr. Reuben, I'd almost certainly be unable to resist interjecting into the conversation my own satirical slant, adapted, and adjusted, of course, to fit the topic of Chief Executive chastising as opposed to chicken choking.

"actually, Johnny, that's correct. I don't like Donald Trump and probably wouldn't want him within a mile of my house, let alone in my life, let alone pretending to be a leader of my country, because, frankly, John, I think he's a reprehensible, more than a little pathetic and not just a little sad excuse for a man.....but, personally, the reason I don't like him being president.....

...is that he's so bad at it."

Cue considerable audience applause.

Laughter, not so much.







 

"...Yes, Virginia, It Is Possible For Someone To Continue Driving A Car That's Going Absolutely Nowhere..."

Of all the transgressions to be eventually filed under Trump, there is one to be stamped "above all".

That which is to be so designated due shortly.

First....

The pattern is so clear, recognizable and inevitable that a second grader could predict its repeated occurrence.

A critique or, God forbid, criticism of any thought, word or deed generating from the pathetically sad "on high" that is the earthly existence of Donald Trump results, almost instantaneously, most certainly without fail, in the following comically tragic perversion we'll comically, and tragically, refer to as DonaldDefCon.

• the "critic" is immediately moved to the head of the very long line of those who stubbornly refuse the honor of membership in the O Come Let Us Adore Him Club
• first place in that line entitles the "critic" to be the front and center focus of the man/baby's retribution.
• said retribution, almost exclusively, most certainly without fail, in the form of what the man/baby has trademarked as "modern day Presidential", the Tweet.
• said tweet always, and without fail, in the form of infantile snarks and snides, juvenile low blows that make the schoolyard bully seem like Lincoln at Gettysburg, petty, petulant tantrums of 140 characters or less, acerbic, acidic but ever and always erudite, eloquent and most deserved in the mind of the man/baby while certainly, even screamingly, infantile, and did we mention pathetic?... to anyone blessed with a maturity level exceeding that of a healthy toddler.
• sycophants, loyalists, apologists and/or giddy members of the aforementioned OCLUAHC get all giddy and shit while those blessed with a maturity level exceeding that of a healthy toddler continue quietly making plans to smash the Electoral College into such minute shards that never again, in the course of human events, will a pathetically sad man/baby be allowed to get within a thousand miles of 1600 Pennsylvania Ave.

The current recipient of a Tweeted Tantrump is Bob Corker, the Republican Senator from Tennessee.

Last week Corker poked the man/baby with a stick by having the audacity to suggest that the only thing that Trump had succeeded at, thus far, in his presidency was putzing up his presidency.

Corker said last week he fears that the nation will be in peril unless Trump makes radical changes at the White House.

“He also recently has not demonstrated that he understands the character of this nation,” Corker told reporters following his luncheon address. “He has not demonstrated that he understands what has made this nation great and what it is today. And he’s got to demonstrate the characteristics of a president who understands that.”

 Well, hell, it's easy to understand why the man/baby would get his Pampers in a twist over that outrageous observation.

"He's got to do better" is how Corker's insubordination of the imperial shakes out.

I mean, the nerve, right?

Corker's comments are, of course, grains of sand on the beach at a time when that aforementioned healthy toddler is aware of the incompetence on display 24/7 in this "modern day presidency".

And the list of Trumpian transgressions reads longer than a kid's Christmas wish list in this era of Kardashian-esque self obsession and absorption.

But there is that one "above all" mentioned earlier.

And that one shakes out like this.

By insisting upon always opting for lowering the river as opposed to raising the bridge, by raising the bar of presidential performance, Trump has put a dent in the prestige, not to mention well being, of America that even a five star rated body shop will be years in pounding out.

He is a petty man. And he has brought his pettiness and petulance and elementary school vocabulary and grammar and manners into a sacred office and splashed them all over the walls of that office, like a crazed kid having a grape juice slinging hissy fit over this or that other kid being"mean to him".

And it makes no difference whether that 'other kid" is an average citizen who doesn't support him, a member of his own party who dares suggest he might be flawed in some way or the leader of another nation, any nation, in the global community of 2017, leaders who have made it clear as Ivanka brand crystal that they have no use, time, patience with or intention of treating this man/baby with anything other than token tolerance until he goes away, this man/baby who sees the entire world as his wall and is ever ready with a Sharpie in each hand to draw and color and smear and mark as he damn well pleases.

Whenever he damn well pleases.

And defacing the den, even fucking up the furniture still isn't the worst of it.

Because Donald Trump won't be able to live up to his first, and primary, promise.

The one on the cap.

He won't be able to make America great again.

Because in order to do that, you've got to be the kind of president he is simply, psychologically, incapable of being.

And, the worst of it?

Above all?

He has made the Presidency of the United States irrelevant.

How long he remains in office is up to the fates and powers that be.

So, to all the members of the OCLUAHC tuning in, let me comfort you.

And clue you.

He may be in office for quite a while to come.

But this presidency....is over.

And that's comically tragic.

Above all.

"...Only Because Send In The Clowns Is So Obvious...And So Overused..."

Today's astute and trenchant political observation comes to us from the eloquent pen brandished by one of America's treasures of musical theater.

Stephen Sondheim.

Not a day goes by.

Or, as Facebook friend and accomplished screenwriter, Lily Mercer, coined it, perhaps less eloquently, but certainly in a manner more easily understood by those who continue to lap up the Kool Aid as if the pitcher was spiked with heroin.....

...every damn day.

The variety of tones offered up by Sondheim and Mercer notwithstanding, the punchline of what has become a horrifically unfunny joke is consistent and inevitable.

With each new day, dawns a new dilemma, disaster and/or disrespect courtesy of the Donald.

Today, there's a tingly little trifecta.

He signed his promised ban on transgenders serving in the military.

Another of his entourage sycophants turned rational human beings eager to get as far away from him as possible opted to get as far away from him as possible.

And, as promised, in his patented, wink, wink, nudge, nudge, know what I mean, know what I mean style at last week's Phoenix meeting of the O Come Let Us Adore Him Club, he pardoned Joe Arpaio.

So, let's total the week's receipts.

Transgenders are no longer allowed, let alone welcomed, to serve, and perhaps, die for their country unless, of course, they are already in service to their country in which case they are more than free to serve, and perhaps, die for their country. The determination as to what to do about those transgenders, the ones already in service, has been left up to the commanding officers of said services.

Donald's sole role, and purpose in the process, was to make good on a promise he made to the O Come Let Us Adore Him Club.

So, he can check that one off his list.

Sebastian Gorka, a Breitbart editor with a pretty nasty, sneezing, wheezing case of Islamaphobia and not just a few traceable ties to neo-Nazis, who had a pretty sweet seat at the KKK Knights of the Oval Office Table, had to turn in his decoder ring and Make America Great Again hood, sorry, cap and slither back to Breitbart where Steve Bannon is patiently waiting to re-assemble the old gang, kind of like a much less adorable, whole lot more bigoted blowhard Ocean's Eleven.

Insider talk has it that John Kelly, the current, one assumes momentary, Chief of Staff at Playhouse 1600 wanted Gorka out and since Kelly is currently, and one assumes momentarily, wearing the name tag bearing the name Lola, one additionally assumes that Gorka's g-bye was Lola getting whatever Lola wants.

One assumes momentarily.

And then there's Joe.

Oh, there's also a killer hurricane bitch slapping the fine folk in coastal Texas around at this writing, but those who keep a firm finger on the pulse of politics in these most interesting of times aren't bashful when they offer that whatever damage Harvey does or doesn't do, in the end, he was one wham bam thank you man distraction for those quirky little end of the week Donald doin's.

Besides, six to five and pick em', Trump will be pardoning Harvey before we get to Hump Day in the coming week anyway.

Anyway, then, there's Joe.

For those who either don't keep up, don't particularly care or who just simply have all they can handle composing and posting their continued pleas for people to stop the madness and let "our new President do the job we elected him to do..", here's a prime time style update for you.

Previously....on The Joe Show.

Joe Arpaio is the former sheriff of Maricopa County, Arizona. He made a celebrity, not to mention career, out of not letting a pesky inconvenience like the U.S. Constitution get in the way of his dealing with Latinos, finally to the point where he was ordered, by a Federal judge to cease and desist (translation for the more erudite Trump fans: cease and desist means knock that shit off). Joe declined to take that Federal judge's suggestions to heart which resulted in his being charged with contempt of (Federal) court, a charge of which he was found guilty.

Donald, meanwhile, also a newly minted member of the "Who Gives A Fuck What The Judiciary Of The United States Of America Has To Say About Anything That I, Or You, If You're One Of My Drooling Adoring Peeps Don't Agree With It" Club just whipped out his favorite compensation for a teensy weensy weenie, the old Executive Action pen, and issued Joe a little Trumpian justice in the form of a Get Out Of Jail Free card.

Cue Sondheim and/or Mercer.

Not a day goes by.

Every damn day.

And, with every damn day that does not go by without dilemma, disaster or disrespect,  that old Germanic magic rears its historically ugly head, as well.

Let the Fuehrer frenzy re-commence.

We've been down this pee stain yellow brick road before when it comes to the knee jerk, seig heil comparisons of Trump's trampling on the hallowed and/or sacred and/or, oh, what the hell, let's just not tip toe here, the legal and moral traditions of America in particular and basic, decent humanity in general and, frankly, it's getting a little wearying having to address the comparison time and time again.

But, taking a page from Donald's playbook of how to get someone classy and sensible to actually stay on his staff for more than one forty hour week, let me take yet another crack at this.

And, in what I think you'll find a delightfully ironic way, actually provide you a little comfort in so far as any fears you might have that Trump in the White House is actually irrefutable proof that we are, in fact, knee deep in the end of days.

Donald Trump is not Adolf Hitler.

In fact, he's not even really all that Hitler-esque.

And these continued, Swastika soaked go-to attempts to find an equivalency between these two pimples on history's ass do a sizable disservice.

To the German half of the monstrously megalomaniac mutated version of Phil and Don.

Or Adolf and Don, as the case may be.

Not, of course, meant to imply even a whiff of respect, endorsement or even tolerance of the horror that was little Alois Schicklgruber from gracious and growing Braunau am Inn in what his present day Austria.

Because Adolf was the very personification of what Donald would later whimsically refer to as a "bad hombre".

Javol, there, Herr Trump. We hear ya, buddy.

No, comparing the Madman of Mar-A-Lago to the Bastard Of Berlin is a most heinous false equivalency if only because Hitler had something that Trump has never had and will never have.

More to the point, Hitler was not something that Donald very much is.

Frankly, with all due respect ("...and Mr. Dennit, I said with all due respect..."), it's a pretty despicable character trait.

Yet, again with what will prove to be irrefutable irony, it will be that very character trait that will eventually bring us all safely, if not just a little worse for the wear, out of the justice be damned jungle that is Donnyworld.

And all of the signs are right there on the old super highway.

For your more enthusiastic psych students, a veritable cornucopia of Freudian answers and hints and clues (oh, my).

But even if you're not particularly into crossing your Sigmund with your Columbo, the pudding is chock a block full of the proof.

Let's have a list. Wanna?

There was to be a wall. There is no wall. There is no money for a wall. Mexico will not pony up for a wall. Congress will not pony up for a wall. Now Trump says if Congress doesn't give up the money for a wall, he will "shut the government down".

He will not shut the government down. And there will be no money for a wall.

There was to be an immediate repeal and replace of Obamacare. There is no repeal. There is no replace. Trump has fumed, spewed, tantrumed and threatened and still there is no repeal and there is no replace.

There will not be an immediate repeal. There will not be an immediate replacement.

He pledged to move the American embassy in Israel from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. There was no move. The American embassy remains in Tel Aviv.

He was clear in his intention to withdraw America from the Paris Climate Accord. There has been no withdrawal l from the Paris Climate Accord.

He was adamant that the doors would slam shut on immigration. Period. End of sentence.

No slam, no shut, no end of sentence.

Period.

He promised, pledged, guaranteed ____________________.

No __________________________.

Oh.

He did just pardon Joe Arpaio.

By signing a piece of paper, under cover of Harvey, before scurrying aboard Marine One and whirling off to Camp David.

Safe and secure from both the hurricane...and any firestorm of legal outrage that will be coming his way once Harvey blows himself out. Leaving any fallout, of course, to be dealt with by the gaggle of lawyers that thank their lucky starred seven figure incomes every day for the election of Donald John Trump.

See. Here's the thing about Donald John Trump.

That thing that pretty much insures that, when the days of Trump are finally concluded, we will be pretty banged up but in, give or take a piece, one piece.

He's not going to shut down the government.

He's not going to launch nuclear missiles at North Korea.

He's not going to give white supremacists and neo-Nazis free reign to pillage and plunder.

He's not even going to make Mitch McConnell his bitch. On Obamacare or immigration or anything else.

Because, and let's try to make this the last time we have to deal with this foolish and false equivalency......

...Donald Trump is not Adolf Hitler.

Hitler was evil, ruthless, despotic, probably psychotic and reprehensible beyond measure.

But he wasn't a frightened man/child hiding his fear and insecurity behind a blowhard, bloviating bully presentation.

He didn't bluff. And he didn't bullshit.

He didn't threaten to invade and conquer.

He invaded and conquered.

Hitler was, evil and ruthless a given, the real deal.

Donald Trump is not Hitler.

Donald Trump is a hologram.

Not a day goes by that he doesn't prove it.

Every damn day.

"...He's Really Not A Bigot....It's Actually Much Worse Than That..."

Three things rare in life these days.

Steak that's really cooked the way you ordered it.

Anything resembling quality customer service from Comcast.

Me. Defending Donald Trump.

Cue Donna Summer.

Heaven knows.

That said, it's become clear to me over the past few months and, most especially in the last few weeks, even days, that Trump is being accused of this and that which, to my p.o.v., he is not necessarily guilty.

And I only qualify it by saying "not necessarily" because I don't know the man, don't have access to the man and don't honestly know what he has to say behind closed doors.

The most recent accusation flung at him like feces from a disgruntled primate is that he is a racist.

And while we're at it, let's throw in the scarlet lettering of him as a "Nazi sympathizer."

Both batches of tar and feathers there, of course, resulting from his badly bobbled handling of the bully pulpit in response to the rioting, destruction and death that occurred in Charlottesville.

And he certainly didn't do himself any favors by waiting two days to respond, then giving only lip service to a cliche' soaked schpiel clearly written for him by some one else and, then, to the chagrin of his own people and the weary, same shit, different day expectations of his detractors, holding the "press conference" in which he disavowed the cliche' soaked schpiel and got back to business as usual, awkwardly, and ineptly, attempting to weasel his way around condemning the bigots and fascists that made up the Virginia lynch mob while, if only in his own mind, coming off as "Presidential" to those of us who really can't find much in the way of moisture in a glass of bile that Trump seems to want us to see as, at least, half full.

Now, while we're at it, let's throw in some of the oldie but goodie epithets that have been spit balled at the man since he came down out of Trump Tower two years ago and decided that America needed to be made great again and he, and only he, had the savvy to make it happen.

Misogynist.
Chauvinist.
Sexual predator.
Payment delinquent.
Deal welcher.
Narcissist.
Sociopath.

Okay. Now, here's where the third of those really rare things I mentioned at the outset comes into play. And just so we're clear, I have neither the desire or the intention to put any effort whatsoever into being a part of putting Trump into a better light.

And what I'm about to offer here is really more in the neighborhood of clarification than it is validation.

Cause, frankly, my dear, I'm not pro-Trump on anything. Ever. Least of all, Trump.

But, I think it important and, bear with me, even beneficial for you to know why I think he's being mislabeled when he is labeled as a racist and/or a Nazi sympathizer.

I'll grant you that the symptoms of what he seems to be and what I read him, in actuality, to be are very much the same.

But there's a tell, if you will, in his behavior that sometime ago convinced me that he is neither, necessarily, a racist or a Nazi sympathizer or any one of a dozen other mean spirited, even evil, personality flaws that continue to stink up the atmosphere of this country he professes to want made great again.

And the tell...is this.

Follow through. Or, more to the point, lack of follow through.

He wailed and blustered and verbally vomited his disdain for the Latino "infestation" in this country, bluntly "guaranteed" that there would be a wall and Mexico would pay for it.

One year later. No wall. No pesos yet forthcoming to pay for a wall.

And Donald has nothing to say about the matter, except to mention it in his moments of demagogue delight for the fans that just still cant get enough of the Kool Aid . No follow through.

He wailed and bloviated and flag waved his nubby little fingers to the quick with assurances that he had a "30 day plan to defeat ISIS".

One year later, no plan, no defeat, ISIS still alive in whatever form it currently exists and rearing its vile little existence by periodically jumping behind a wheel and cowardly mowing down crowds in outdoor cafes.

And Donald has nothing to say about the plan or ISIS. No follow through.

He minced nary a syllable, let alone a word when he boldly promised that "all Americans would have heath care, great health care at much reduced prices as soon as he could solemnly swear to faithfully execute both the office and the Affordable Care Act.

One year later. Donald has nothing to say about repealing or replacing. He's even stopped blaming McConnell. Although we all know that's merely a reprieve and not a resolution.

No follow through.

And, at this moment, we have Russia still cooking on the back burner, Bannon shown the door, half a dozen Chiefs of Staff, press secretaries and/or communications directors listed on a metaphorical memorial wall.

And approval ratings that make saying "in the crapper" a disservice to even that which actually ends up in the crapper.

Meanwhile, Tuesday 22nd found him getting his knob polished by the adoring masses in Phoenix at the latest assemblage of the Narcissus Praise And Genuflect Society, better known to you and me and the rest of the sane world as Trump's base.

And a speech, if you want to call sixty minutes of vile, venom, vomit and mental masturbation a speech, that came along just in time to validate to a moral, or more correctly, an immoral certainty my assertion that Donald is getting mislabeled when tagged with the racism, neo-Nazi name tag.

More promises he has very little chance of keeping, more savaging of anyone and anything that contradicts, for a single nano second, anything he says, wants, does or purportedly plans and or promises to say, want or do in the future.

And the gathered faithful lapping it up like a herd of crazed kitties coming across an oasis size bowl of cool cream on the stoop of their undivided house.

Well, of course, they lap it up.

Because it doesn't matter a whip or whit that very little of what Trump is saying to them has any basis in truth, fact, honesty, integrity or even potential.

That's not what they're there to hear.

And that's not what he's there to tell them
.
They're there to hear what they want to hear.

And he's there to tell them what they want to hear.

It's called pandering.

Noun: to gratify or indulge (an immoral or distasteful desire, need, or habit or a person with such a desire, etc.).

Pandering. Telling people what they want to hear. So that the teller can get the listener to believe in, or testify to or buy in, lock, stock and/or barrel, to accept, on faith and faith alone, that whatever the teller promises will come to pass.

Regardless of how impractical, impossible, inane or even insane whatever that promise might be might be.

Pandering.

Telling people what they want to hear.

It's how Donald Trump got elected President.

It's what Donald Trump does to insure that those that worship and adore will continue to worship and adore, no matter what, no matter when, no matter where.

It's why he took two days to say anything at all about the bigots and haters and Nazis in Charlottesville, then gave the brief "speech" condemning them and then, the next day, to the collective chagrins of staff and citizenry, took it all back.

Because he is incapable of functioning as an elected official, a spokesperson, hell, maybe even as a person without being loved, adored, worshiped, admired, revered.

And, in the mindset of that personality, the only way to insure the love, adoration, worship, admiration and or reverence of people is to tell them what they want to hear.

To pander.

So, if only on the basis of a benefit of the doubt humanitarianism, let's cut the man this much slack.

That underneath it all, he's not really a racist.

And he's not really a Nazi sympathizer.

He just has to tell the racists and Nazi sympathizers that he's one of them. While at the same time, letting those who would naturally be appalled that he is one of them know that he's not really one of them.

Old expression for that style of "leadership".

It's known as talking out of both sides of your mouth.

Being all things to all people, as if that were even minutely close to possible in this life.

Racist? I honestly don't think so.

Nazi sympathizer? Again, don't see it being actual.

Misogynist.
Chauvinist.
Sexual predator.
Payment delinquent.
Deal welcher.
Narcissist.
Sociopath.

Oh, sure, no problem pegging him all of those.

Oh. And one more for the list.

Panderer.

In fact, move that to the top of the list.

Again, no defense of Trump on my part intended or desired.

I just felt the need to tell you what I just told you.

Even if it's not what you wanted to hear.