Re: Psychoanalysing The Donald.
I think I’ve finally figured out Donald Trump. If you’re wondering why it’s taken me so long, it’s because I’m old and slow. I may also be suffering brain damage from watching too many clips on CNN of him flapping his large mouth.
First, let me refute the base canard that The Donald is the way he is because his parents named him after a duck. Second, this is a flawed but talented man of many facets. Third, and most important, he is primarily a spoiled, tantrum-addicted five-year-old, locked into the body of a 72-year-old man. He revealed this in the campaign rally in which he trashed Dr Christine Blasey Ford. (“How did you get there? I can’t remember. How did you get home? I don’t know.”)
Trump has a deep-rooted need to throw frequent temper tantrums. He funnels most of them into his morning tweetstorms. But if he represses them too long, usually because of heavy counselling by his anxious minders, they erupt whenever he breaks loose and gets a chance to address his adoring but brainless fan base (the Trumpaninnies) at a campaign rally. That was the venue for his “I don’t remember” rant. At such times, encouraged by the howling of the mob, the temperamental five-year-old bursts free, kicking and screaming, spitting baby food and brandishing his pacifier.
We get a glimpse of how his wealth and pampered life have warped him when he confesses to having built his financial empire with the help of “a small loan” of a million dollars advanced by his doting father. Savour that phrase, dear readers: “a small loan”. Only a paltry million dollars! What a skinflint his father must have been! Most of us would fight and kill for only a fraction of that amount. Readers who wish to ruin their minds by trying to understand the Trumpababy should factor into their thinking the five-year-old spoiled brat syndrome.
Ye Olde Pedant