Thank God for Donald Trump.
Now that someone has finally had the guts to call John McCain a fraud, a schmuck and a loser, maybe we can bring other so-called heroes down a few notches.
George Washington? He won the Revolutionary War—just barely—but does anyone else remember how? He had to invite the French in. The French! And this was to beat the Limeys. How pathetic is that? You can call him the Father of His Country if you like; I call him Loser in Chief.
Franklin Delano Roosevelt? A damned cripple. You’re going to send a guy in a wheelchair to negotiate with Joe Stalin? Good luck with that. I’ve got about as much use for FDR as I do for Stephen Hawking. If Hawking’s so damned smart, why can’t he figure out how to walk?
And that Abe Lincoln. In this year, the 150th anniversary of his death, we have been inundated with idolatrous accounts of his genius, his sainthood, his compassion and blah, blah, blah. Excuse me, but did he even complete elementary school?
Sure, he was a lawyer, but back in those days all you had to do was read a few books, rob a few widows of their meager fortunes and voila!—you were a lawyer. And he’s a hero because some halfwit thespian assassinated him? My heroes are people too smart to get shot. Abe, you ever hear of a security detail?
How about John Glenn? I’ve got news for you, people: Albert, the first monkey who went up in a rocket, was a bigger hero than John Glenn. Glenn went from astronaut to senator to low-rent scamster when he got swept up in the savings-and-loan scandal. That’s why we should only elect people who are independently wealthy.
Don’t get me started on Gandhi. If he’d stuck with the loom and stayed away from politics, he might have done the world some good. As it was, he managed to boot the Brits out of India—without firing a shot or calling in the French—but only because the Brits couldn’t wait to leave India, that basket case among nations. Trump’s got more dough than a billion of Gandhi’s countrymen.
And do I need to add that Gandhi was assassinated?
Don’t forget Martin Luther King Jr., a close “student” of Gandhi’s. Oh, he could give a good speech, if you were looking for the same blowsy rhetoric old Abe dabbled in, but what else did he do? He got himself killed, just like Abe, just like Gandhi.
Jesus, people, what part of the word “hero” do you not understand? Real soldiers and real bomber pilots do not get captured, and real political leaders do not allow themselves to be assassinated.
If John McCain were a real hero, like the tremendous Rambo, he would have killed one of his captors, lashed his broken arms to a pilfered weapon and fought his way back to South Vietnam. Lincoln should have been watching his back, not some cheesy melodrama, which would have enabled him to grab John Wilkes Booth’s gun hand and toss him over the balcony, Tom Cruise-style. Tom Cruise, now there’s a hero, and like Donald Trump he knows how to attract the babes.
And since I brought up Jesus, Jesus. Carpenter’s apprentice? You’re fired! What else did he do? Anything the least bit constructive, conducive to a productive society? When he did finally meet up with a bunch of fairly competent fellows, the first thing he did was talk them into abandoning their jobs, giving away their possessions and going on the tramp.
Oh, they say Jesus could turn water into wine, and I suppose that’s a fairly handy trick if you’re the leader of a gang of hoboes, but it’s not like he opened a major wine-production facility that actually created some jobs, which is what Donald Trump would have done under the circumstances.
Do I need to remind you how Jesus died? He was not merely assassinated. He allowed himself to be railroaded by a tinhorn satrap, got the crap beat out of him, had a crown of thorns mashed onto his head … but you’ve probably heard that whole dreary story. His friends could have helped him skedaddle so he could live to fight another day, but he wanted to play the martyr, which is a two-dollar word for chump.
The same thing happened to Socrates, the Greek blowhard who could answer any question under the sun with a meaningless paradox—just like old J. Christ. The people of Athens would have been glad to let Socrates “escape,” but he wanted to make a spectacle of himself, to give a fancy speech before he chased his last shot of ouzo with a dram of hemlock. Please. These are the “heroics” we get from phony heroes.
Folks, there should be just one face on Mount Rushmore, and that is the face that sits under the tremendous head of hair borne by Donald Trump, billionaire, television star, anti-Mexican crusader, real estate developer and chick magnet.
If Donald Trump is elected president, I promise you this: he will seal the border tighter than Mike Huckabee’s zipper, legalize polygamy for wealthy studs and replace the White House paintings of former presidents—phony cowards all—with bejeweled portraits of The Donald.
For that matter, he’ll replace the White House itself with a skyscraper so tall it will be visible from Mexico, whose people will learn to tremble at the mere mention of his name.
It goes without saying that his wife will be the First Fox. Eat your heart out, John McCain.