It's one of the things that surprises and disappoints me most.
No serious adult can look at Trump and come away thinking he's a serious person or anyone fit for the presidency.
It has nothing to do with ideology, as if he even had a governing philosophy, and everything to do with character, knowledge and temperament.
What should be obvious to everyone is that Trump is a made up figure that he cultivated into a brand and sold to a gullible media and public. He inherited money that he squandered and was kept afloat by foreign money so that he could continue with the charade.
Donald Trump is a myth.
Most of the world beyond our borders can see it with clarity, and they rightfully wonder just what the hell is wrong with Americans as here in this country there exists a willful blindness to the very harsh reality of the nobody Donald Trump actually is.
He's good at one thing though, and that's fooling modern day Americans lacking emotional intelligence that he's something that he is not.
He is REALLY good at that.

One of the downstream consequences of pretending that Trump was ever fit to be president is that the GOP is training its voters to want unserious performers and conspiracy theorists (as Trump was/is) to play a serious role in American politics and that should scare us all.

These quick thoughts by Michael Jochum on the disturbing reason Trump gets as much support as he does is a must-read 👇

I used to wonder how it was possible that Trump could have won in 2016, and then again in 2024, given how emotionally toxic and depraved he is.

I don’t wonder anymore. I think he won for that exact reason. Because he carried at least one broken shard to reflect the broken shards in millions of others.

If you’re a racist, you found your guy. If you’re a misogynist, you found your guy. If money is your only religion, you found your guy. If your heart is armored shut, you found your guy. If you mock the disabled, you found your guy. If intelligence makes you insecure, you found your guy. If you’re a sexual predator, you found your guy. If you trade in humiliation and conspiracy and filth, you found your guy.

If you’ve never done a single hour of emotional inventory, you found your guy. If you cheat, stiff contractors, bankrupt your obligations, and call it savvy, you found your guy. If you lie as easily as you breathe, you found your guy. If cruelty feels like strength, you found your guy. If white grievance is your comfort food, you found your guy. If your ego is a black hole no title can fill, you found your guy. If warmongering fuels your ego, you found your guy, If empathy feels like weakness and dominance feels like oxygen, you found your guy.

If he’d only carried one or two of these pathologies, he might have been dismissed as just another loud, damaged man. But he carried a buffet of them. That was the appeal. Millions could locate themselves somewhere in the wreckage. They didn’t have to agree with all of it. They just had to recognize a piece of themselves in it.

It was never really about him. It was about the validation. The absolution. The permission. He didn’t invent the resentment; he amplified it. He didn’t create the cruelty; he normalized it. He gave millions the intoxicating relief of hearing their ugliest impulses echoed back at rally volume.

Trump is a symptom. The deeper illness is collective. If there’s one sentence that defines his power, it’s this: “He says the things I’m thinking.”

And that’s the part that should chill us.

Because what does it say about us that so many were thinking those things? That tens of millions of Americans harbored resentments so deep, so seething, that they were simply waiting for a demagogue to baptize them as virtue? That after decades of supposed progress on race, gender, and equality, so many white men felt so threatened, so displaced, so furious, that cruelty became a political platform?

Maybe we were living in a fool’s paradise, mistaking silence for healing, politeness for progress.

Now the mask is off. Now we know.

And knowing is a far more dangerous place to stand.

– Michael Jochum, Not Just a Drummer: Reflections on Art, Politics, Dogs, and the Human Condition.