If Kim Jong Un decides to out-bully Trump this may very well prove to be my very last blog post. For all you people wondering what the Bay of Pigs moment was like, this is it. This temper-tantrum meltdown between two completely erratic and insane abusers.
I hold Trump in utter contempt.
You may have noticed.
I’m pretty sure even God is fed up with Trump, despite what Stupid Head Robert Jeffress says about him.
Normally, I’d be so far inland, I wouldn’t worry too much about a pissing match between Trump and his half-brother Kim. But right now I’m out here on the Olympic Peninsula. I’ll be here for the week. Maybe that will give Mattis and Kelly long enough to get Trump his lithium. If not, well, I’m going to run toward the light. Surviving a nuclear attack has never really appealed to me.
Not that I think Kim has nukes. If you believe he does, perhaps you also know where Saddam hid those weapons of mass destruction Bush never found? I’m less worried about Kim than I am Trump. He’s batshit crazy and if you don’t think so, you need to get woke.
I wish I had more time and energy to fret over Trump and his counterpart in pouting and whining, but the thing that Trump and Kim keep forgetting is that while they go about trying to decide whether to blow us all to smithereens, the rest of us have to go on living. Or trying to survive.
Several of my friends are struggling with life in a very real sense right now. Struggling to survive bone marrow transplants. Struggling to survive chemo. Struggling to survive radiation. Struggling to survive the diseases that are ravaging their bodies. Struggling to get through one more oncology appointment. One more troubling diagnosis. One more decision to make that might determine whether they have a future or not.
The oddest thing has been haunting me as of late. It’s a quote I read some years ago when I was working on the memoir about my father’s death in Vietnam. It was something that the war criminal Lt. Calley reportedly said about the war: The average Vietnamese wasn’t interested in any war. They were simply interested in their rice paddy, their water buffalo, taking care of their families.
This is the thing I think Trump fails to understand. Most of us don’t want to be caught up in his drama, his tweets, his bullying, his histrionics. We have rice paddies and water buffalos to care for.
Families to tend to.
Which is why I’m up here on the Olympic Peninsula to begin with. I’m here with my sis and her husband. She has an oncology meeting at 8 a.m. I’m going along to take notes. To be that extra set of ears. A stenographer of sorts.
We did this when our mama was ill, my sis and I. Tried to make sure for the big meetings that we were both there so that one could take notes while the other asked questions. It helps, really, because, as you know, cancer can throw a person’s body, mind and soul into shock. Just the notion of it.
It’s been five months since my sister was first diagnosed with breast cancer. Two surgeries later and she still hasn’t started treatment yet. She was supposed to have started it last week, but then she got one of those Uh-Oh phone calls.
Uh-Oh, we were not expecting this.
Uh-Oh, we know you weren’t either.
Uh-Oh, but there is a problem.
Uh-Oh, the cancer is more aggressive than we first thought.
Uh-Oh, you need chemo after all.
That was a hard day for my sis. A hard day for her family. A hard day for me, too. We’ve been gearing up for daily radiation, you know the drill. Five days on for six weeks. Thinking that, along with five years of drug therapy, would be all she would need to eradicate the cancer.
But now, it’s chemo, too.
So tomorrow morning as Trump sits on the toilet and tweets, I’ll be sitting with the sister I love, taking notes and praying.
For all the wrong he did, Lt. Calley was right about this one thing – the average person doesn’t want a war. The average person just wants to tend to the people they love.
Life has enough histrionics of its own. Don’t any of us need the dramas drummed up by Trump.
The last thing any of us wants is a president who makes our daily struggle all that much more difficult.
Can’t somebody just give Trump a shot of morphine, or lithium or anything to settle his fiery ass down? Save all the rest of us this daily misery?
What was it that scripture said? Don’t worry about tomorrow for each day has enough trouble of its own?
Lord, if that ain’t the Gospel Truth, I don’t know what is.