Meditations on reading the transcript of Donald John Trump’s meeting with the Washington Post
By Donald Trump is that kid who shows up in your basement and wants to play your electric guitar even though he doesn’t know a single chord. He insists that he’s awesome and can totally rock out better than anyone ever, “better than Jimmy Hendrix, even” — and when he says the name you know he’s thinking “Jimmy” and not “Jimi,” because that’s how goddamn dumb he is. But he won’t shut up about your guitar — seriously, he goes on about it for, like, two hours.
Finally, you roll your eyes and placate the mulleted intruder, because he’s eating all your cereal right out of the box with his gross little hands, and you have no idea where they’ve been (but really you do, you just can’t think about it anymore), and you realize it’s only a matter of time before he gets bored and tries to fuck your sister again or your mom or something worse. So you give him the guitar, show him a couple of power chords, and tell him to “take it easy” as you plug him into the amp.
He ignores you, of course, and attacks the guitar like it owes him $20 and a handjob. The breakfast sausages that pass for fingers bend the strings unreasonably, and he’s got that white guy Blues Face going on, and his hair is bobbing like a worn 7-11 mop, and you can’t even look because you’re suddenly embarrassed for the entire human race. Meanwhile, your amp is spitting out black clots of noise that sound like what self-loathing would sound like, or like the audio track to a crush fetish video. You don’t know it yet, but upstairs, your dog is shitting on the kitchen floor.
Trump, the stupid dicknose, actually does a windmill and totally misses the strings, and the pick goes flying across the room, but he’s like, “Nah, fuck it, I meant to do that,” so he drops down to his knees and shoves his fist in the air and screams “Yeah!” like he’s that guy from Metallica and not the absolute worst person in the world at that moment and most moments bracketing either end of that moment. The feedback scrapes the basement walls for another ten seconds or so, and upstairs, another dog turd drops.
Trump stands up as you’re reaching for the bleach bottle, swoops his pig knuckles through his hair, and grunts, “Heh. Fucking awesome, I’ve gotta get one of these,” as you drop the cap and take your first swig.
