You might have peered over from a safe distance, wondering who let him in, then ignoring him, assuming he will soon pass out. Until he starts kicking over the furniture and threatening people. Where’s the host? Why is he still here? He’s not funny anymore. He never was, but now he’s about as funny as a loaded gun.
Like his hairdo, Donald Trump is an illusion. Artificially puffed up, hiding a great swathe of nothingness underneath. Women should be punished for having abortions, he says suddenly, as though it has just occurred to him.
What sort of punishment, wonders the television interviewer. Ten cents fine or ten years’ imprisonment? No idea, says Donald Trump out loud on national television, because he hasn’t. He has not given it any thought. He has not given anything any thought. The only genuine aspect of Trump is his desperate desire for power.
He’s not anti-abortion any more than he’s pro-choice. An echo chamber for reactionary public opinion, which he then resounds back to us via repeated media ricochets, Donald Trump doesn’t care about repatriating Mexicans, banning Muslims, building walls, ‘punishing’ women on issues of reproductive autonomy. He just wants to be in the Oval Office. By any means.
His motivation is simple – spraying the White House gold and erecting a giant TRUMP sign on its roof. To achieve this he will do anything, say anything, condemn anything, condone anything. He will go to any lengths - like Frank Underwood but without the charm and nuance.
Trump’s greatest folly – and there is quite a range to choose from – is his failure to recognise half of humanity as actual human beings. Women are not people, in Trumpvision. Women are things. Bitches. Beauties. Uglies. He has called women who disagreed with him “dogs”, “fat pigs”, “disgusting animals”. He has compared women he finds attractive to buildings and pieces of art.
His spouses are trophies, to be marched out and displayed. “It doesn’t matter what [the media] write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass,” he once told Esquire.
Even his daughter is an object of desire about whom he makes super-creepy references: “If I weren’t happily married and, you know, her father...” In case we don’t get the inference, he spells it out: “If Ivanka weren’t my daughter, perhaps I’d be dating her.” Let’s try and deep breathe our way out of that one.
But his latest glob of spontaneous misogyny may be his undoing. By suggesting that women who have abortions should be ‘punished’, he united the opposing poles of the abortion rights spectrum. Pro choice people and pro life people, all slack jawed in horror.
It’s like the drunk guy at the party just defecated on the rug.