I feel like I’m waiting for the Third Shoe to drop.
Well, I say third, but I’ve lost count, honestly. It seems like there has been a hailstorm of dropping shoes that started in 2016 and hasn’t ended yet and it almost feels like it never will. It’s like we’re living in the apartment below Imelda Marcos. Shoes are dropping like flies.
But this feels like a Big Shoe coming. And I wonder, am I actually feeling a future echo, or is this just paranoia brought on by the conditioning of the last four years? The endless “wtf just happened,” and “he did what”-ness that has tried my patience to the very limit and pushed me past exhaustion and at times straight into despair. I try hard to be an ocean of calm, I avoid rollercoasters like the plague, and I don’t tolerate drama, but the past four years . . . holy shit.
It’s going to get better. The whole world celebrated when the election was officially called for Biden. Bells literally rang out in major cities in Europe. The sense of relief was a sugar rush for a couple of days, but then . . . what if he won’t leave. What if he starts Civil War II, or World War III? What if his most deranged followers really do take to the streets in their pickup trucks, sporting more guns than teeth, and just start shooting anybody they don’t like, believing their Lord and Savior Orangus Crispos will pardon them, and their legal fees will be paid by an endless go-fund-me?
But so far, nothing. At least nothing much. I don’t think Cheatin’ Cheeto is much for . . . stamina. He’s not great at maintaining focus. He’s too wrapped up in the next thing he wants to feed his ego to pay much attention to anything else. Hopefully that’s one of the things his most rabid supporters share with him. (I suspect if the new administration were to send everybody a couple thousand bucks for a couple or three months they’d soon forget about how terrible Biden and Harris are.)
Like most bullies, his bark is way worse than his bite.
Empty threats wear pretty thin. Yes, we’re fatigued from being mentally and verbally abused for the past four years, but . . . most of his threats never came to pass. It took me a while to learn that lesson when I was married. Threats are tools, not intentions. Fear-ridden, spineless bullies don’t have the courage to actually carry through on their outrageous bombast. They know they can act intimidating and keep the rage flowing, and if they yell at you long enough it’ll all turn to mush, except that one threat that sticks: “He’s going to take my kids away if I don’t do what he wants.” Ouch. That’s a big one.
It’s an old game, and one that the ConArtist in Chief plays like a somewhat talented amateur, but he doesn’t have the talent to be “the asshole you love to hate.” There’s not one single appealing thing about him. There’s no quality that makes any thinking person muse, “Wow, he may be an asshole but you gotta give him points for style.” No. He’s tasteless, tacky, inelegant, unattractive, uncreative, humorless, and has the speaking skills of a 4th grader overacting the role of Tough Guy in the school play. And we need to take him just that seriously.
He can still do some damage, absolutely, and I’m sure he will try to burn down as much as he can on his way out. But the more we treat him like an obnoxious child, the more time he will spend having temper tantrums on Twitter and the less time he will spend actually trying to make anything happen.
So buck up, and buckle up, too, because you never know what’s going to happen. Thanks, 2020, for making that lesson stick (but don’t let the door hit your ass on the way out). We got this. We are gonna make it. Have faith and hold on. January 20 is coming.
Need a snarky peptalk, or the occasional weird perspective on something? Look no further! I got you! Stick around and see.
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