Forgive us, world, for we have sinned. Gravely. And this … this is our national confession.
What’s our sin, you ask? It’s sitting in the Oval Office.
Well, he himself is not actually the sin. Rather, our electing him is the sin. That’s why this is a collective ask of global forgiveness. He just happens to be the collateral damage of and by-product from our sin. Now we — and, to some extent, you — have to deal with him. To clean up our mess.
Day after day. Night after night. It’s just one presidential jaw-dropping controversy after another in our long, national nightmare. Hell, it’s gotten to the point that we’re actually surprised when the next Trump kerfuffle does NOT lead the news.
Drip, drip, drip.
I think we just got a little drunk — drunk on his bravado, his outsider-ness, his ballsy rhetoric, details and truth be damned. As long as Trump said it with vigor (or offered to pay the legal bills if you physically assaulted one of his critics), enough of us lapped it up. And, while in that that nationally intoxicated state, we listened to a part of the country (our crazy, national uncle maybe) who convinced us — even against better judgment — that the Trump juice was worth the anxiety squeeze.
But, wow: this hangover’s a bitch.
Oh, we knew he’d continue to be unhinged and rudderless, but we’d gotten so tired of the same old political pabulum of promises made and promises broken — and all covered up by the predictable, antiseptic-y talking points written by the latest White House comms director — that his obvious character deficiencies didn’t matter.
So, we threw the dice, covered our eyes and hit the reset button — voting for the non-politician. And, it felt good — cathartic, even. That hitting the reset button in and of itself isn’t a bad thing, but it’s clear we just picked the wrong vessel on which to hang our voting hat.
But hey, we get at least one presidential mulligan, don’t we? After all, we’ve had a pretty good run of 241 years with only a few presidential bumps as bad as this one.
When compared to you (the rest of the world), we’re just relative newbie punks at this “being a country” stuff — still green behind our national ears. Compared to you, we’re just at that awkward adolescent stage where we’re supposed to make mistakes. And, remember: adolescents do gangly, stupid things. Things they later regret. A lot.
Like electing Trump.
But you. You see, you’ve had some six thousand years of history. When you do the math, your multi-millennia head start translates into 24 years of life experience for you for every one year here in America.
In your time, pieces of Africa Europe, Asia, and the Middle East have birthed the backbone of the history of civilization while also learning from the Dark Ages, the Bronze Ages, the Middle Ages, the birth of the Christ Child, Feudalism, Nazism, Classical Antiquity, the Renaissance and the Reformation. All of these — over several millennia — formed your gritty, been-there-done-that character.
In our short time as a country, we’ve produced, what, the cotton gin, Laverne and Shirley, Dick Nixon, Pee Wee Herman and a few wars.
Don’t get me wrong; we’ve also built an unbelievable country with a world-class economy and military, unrivaled industry, technology that’s the envy of the world, fantastic learning institutions and so much else to be proud of. I don’t want to live anywhere else and I and hundreds of millions of others think this is the greatest country ever.
His presidency, day-by-day, is so dreadful, so painful that it seems like we’re living in the inverse of dog years — basically, one Trump Day equals (and feels like) seven regular-human days.
The making up shit and then lying about it; the inserting justice-obstructing words into his son’s mouth (like any father would) and, again, lying about it; the reactionary, unhinged and ego-driven revenge tweets; the talking about “yacht sex” with the Boy Scouts; the womanizing rhetoric and dozen-ish charges of sexual assault; the lack of legislative accomplishments; the revolving-door West Wing chaos; the lies and cover-ups regarding the Russi — well, you get the picture.
Drip, drip, drip.
So look, here’s the deal. We all know that you, too, have made your share of the same stupid kinds of mistakes (no doubt several times) when you were young and even not-so-young, right? We’ve forgiven you; we just ask the same in return.
Let’s just brace ourselves, get past these next 1,200 or so days and call it a draw.
If you can just do that, we won’t bitch about the French anymore.
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