What strikes me most about Donald Trump supporters is that their fanatical allegiance seems to have extinguished all sense of humor. The typical Donald Trump supporter is steadfast and virulent in his devotion and this appears to leave little room for a little self-deprecatory jabbing. You’re either with us or against us! is the philosophy that seems to drive most Trumpeteers. Which is really unfair, because of all the Presidential candidates over the past 3 or 4 decades, none has fostered as much comic potential as Donald Trump. The dude asks for it. His hair, his words, his personal history, his public exhilaration; he’s goddamned hilarious. How can we not laugh at him? And furthermore, I get the sense that if anyone can laugh at Donald Trump, it is Donald Trump. There’s a sense of overzealous trolling innate to this public persona. He is a character, a formatted scripted being who behaves in the egregious manner we expect and which, when fulfilled, instigates plumes of laughter for what we expected. He’s comedy, damnit. I wish Trumpeteers would lighten up and laugh at their guy once in a while.
I’m a Trump supporter (no Trumpeteer) but I find the guy funnier than all hell.
My favorite Donald Trump laugh track is that which follows any mention of his infamous “little hands.”
This article from ABC compiles the trajectory of Donald Trump’s doomed micro-appendages.
Marco Rubio told supporters last week that GOP presidential rival Donald Trump is “always calling me ‘little Marco.'”
“He is taller than me, he’s like 6′ 2″, which is why I don’t understand why his hands are the size of someone who is 5′ 2″,” Rubio joked. “Have you seen his hands? And you know what they say about men with small hands — “
The crowd erupted.
” — You can’t trust them,” Rubio said.
Rubio’s comment may come across tasteless for a presidential hopeful, but that was not the first time someone has questioned the size of Trump’s hands.
This winter, politics took the high road and the pressing subject of hand size became the sticky (sticking) point between Marco Rubio and Donald Trump, but it was all for naught because Lil’ Marco couldn’t ward off the Trumpian short-fingered attack that Graydon Carter, writing skillfully for Spy magazine in 1988, pressed so well by mocking Donald Trump as a “short-fingered vulgarian.” This immediately placed the aspiring POTUS, Donald Trump, in a defensive posture that sounded ridiculously school-yard by any measure when he retorted,
My fingers are long and beautiful, as, it has been well-documented, are various other parts of my body.
Thanks for that, DT. The mental imprint supersedes any pathetic attempts by blowing out the original insult with egregious responsive innuendo. Good try. The master manipulator of language ploy only goes so far, but the point is, I don’t give a damn about your finger or hand size. You’ve lost this battle. You were outdone in this battle of semantics. In other words, the accuracy of the pointless postulations regarding the size of your fingers means nothing now and any attempts to thwart further conjecture are in vain.
What reminds me of this is that I’m currently in the midst of a humongous, mind-boggling novel, Infinite Jest, by suicided author, David Foster Wallace. I will one day, maybe, write about this “masterpiece” on these digital pages. I’m up to page 300 and my mind swims each time I read it.
The detail, the nuance, the intricate immersion in absurdism, that Wallace expended to write this monument could not have happened in the absence of madness, hence, Wallace’s demise.
But the point at hand, in terms of Donald Trump, is that I read a passage in Infinite Jest in which we are introduced to a burly character, a grief counselor, who happens to have proportionately small hands. In this scene, the narrator, having just “successfully” completed his grief counseling, stands up eagerly to shake his doctor’s hands (which have previously been hidden below sight, under his desk), and the counselor, unable to resist, returns the courtesy and extends his hand.
“…and put my hand out in a trembly grateful way he couldn’t have possibly refused, and he stood and brought out the hand and shook my hand, I finally understood.”
“His hands were disfigured or something.”
“His hands were no bigger than a four-year-old girl’s. It was surreal. This massive authoritative figure, with a huge red meaty face and thick walrus mustache and dewlaps and a neck that spilled over the rim of his shirt-collar, and his hands were tiny and pink and hairless and butt soft, delicate as shells. The hands were the cappers. I barely made it out of the office before it started….I barely made it to the men’s room down the hall. I was laughing hysterically I was afraid all the periodontists and C.P.A.’s on either side of the men’s room would hear….”
Oh Donald, you’re not alone.