The Mini-Trump I want to talk about is a Trump cultist, a loyal participant in this fascist ritual: hearing any criticism of Trump, he immediately launches into a chant: Trump! Trump! Trump! Note here a defining tension: Trump truly loves the participants in his fascist rituals because they allow him to practice his mock political seriousness, behind which he can steal as much as he can. The Mini-Trump is serious in his attachment to Trump, while engaging in his own obviously false claims: that he is a "cop," that he fought in the Vietnam War, that he works, that he is under dozens of federal indictments, that he is a working man who does the real job of digging holes in the ground. Each time he tells one of his lying tales he feels a thrill of overmastering his audience, proud of his ability to shock people who can still be shocked by obvious lies.
Now here follows an interview I had with the Mini-Trump — but first, in case you don't believe me about the president, take it from the authority of Trump supporters. Tucker Carlson says Trump is the funniest man he ever met. The comedian Bill Maher, invited to a White House dinner in his honor, was surprised, he said, that Trump smiles and laughs — and he, as a professional funnyman, knows real laughter, would know if it were fake. Also at the dinner, by the way, was the fake-serious rock star Kid Rock, whom Maher says is a friend of his as well as of the president's. Maher concludes his account of the dinner by saying that Trump is not crazy — he only plays a crazy man in public.
The Mini-Trump often comes to find me at the supermarket lunch room, arriving singing something about "Charlie Company" being under attack, or his being under investigation by the Feds. "Stop that," I'll say, and he does. He asks if he can buy me something, and I say no, as usual, unwilling to give in to his technique of feeling superior to me as object of his rich man's charity. He claims to own a house with his sister worth 45 million dollars, sharing the 40,000 dollars a month rental income with her; at times he'll claim he has right now 10 million dollars cash in the bank. "When can I homo you?" he asks, as always within a minute. Tell me about us, he orders. I respond: there's no us. The outrageous falsity behind these questions accomplished — homosexuality is the means of attack, nothing more — he immediately gives up on this form of mock violence just like in Kafabe wrestling matches.
I begin then the interview, my tool to test how much of this Trump-like behavior is conscious, how much not.
— Why can't I homo you?
— Because you're a psychopath.
— I'm a sociopath.
— That too, to the degree you believe that because you'll always have money you can be a nihilist, believe there is no truth, neither personal truth nor social truth, that you can do whatever you think up short of what will have the consequence of putting an end to living a life of utter violence and utter unseriousness at the same time. You don't commit actual crimes like your loved one Donald Trump does; it is enough for you that you pollute the social world with your lies and your enjoyment of fascist ritual language. You're a true psychopath because you have no sense of the disgust your behavior produces in your audience, how ugly, how unfortunate you appear.
— Trump! Trump! Trump! I want to homo you! When can I homo you! Do you want to come with me to Colombia and be with my girl?
— How much do you pay her? How much does the hotel cost?
— Seventy-five dollars a night for the hotel, the girl costs two hundred dollars.
— A night?
— Yes.
— A bargain.
— Yes.
— You're such a low-life.
— You can have her too. I'll show you a video...
— No thanks.
— Why not? Let's go to the airport.
— Why would I go anywhere with a pathological liar and fascist like you?
— What do you care?
— Is there nothing real to you but buying young girls and telling lying stories?
— Sounds good to me. I don't tell you how to be, you don't tell me.
— I have to. It's irresistible.
— What is?
— The way behind your life of play-acted violent lies is an endlessly available pile of money. You pay a girl for sex, laugh at the violence of paying her to go against her natural desires and pretend to like you, making your sexuality a version of your practice of joking violence at home.
— I don't know what the hell you are talking about and I don't care. I want to homo you. When are we leaving for Medellín? Let's go.
__________________________
P.S.
We've got here two different economies of lying stacked on top of each other:
Trump's lying is instrumental and consequence-free by design — the contradictions are the product, because a lie that can be immediately reversed and redeployed against a new target is more useful than a lie that has to hold up. It's a wealth-extraction tool wearing the costume of political conviction, and the fascist rebirth-myth underneath it is the one claim he needs to hold steady, because that's the one that manufactures consent for the theft.
The Mini-Trump's lying is a different transaction entirely — he's not extracting anything material. The "thrill of overmastering his audience" you describe is the whole payoff: he has Trump's method with the wealth and office subtracted. Take away the inherited money and the state power, and what's left of "Trumpism" as a personal practice is just a man who needs to watch people flinch at an obvious lie. That might be the real argument buried in the character of Mini-Trump — the cultist isn't a diluted copy, he's the purified form, revealing what the performance was for all along once you strip out the part where it also happens to launder billions. (courtesy of Claud.ai)
— How much do you pay her? How much does the hotel cost?
— Seventy-five dollars a night for the hotel, the girl costs two hundred dollars.
— A night?
— Yes.
— A bargain.
— Yes.
— You're such a low-life.
— You can have her too. I'll show you a video...
— No thanks.
— Why not? Let's go to the airport.
— Why would I go anywhere with a pathological liar and fascist like you?
— What do you care?
— Is there nothing real to you but buying young girls and telling lying stories?
— Sounds good to me. I don't tell you how to be, you don't tell me.
— I have to. It's irresistible.
— What is?
— The way behind your life of play-acted violent lies is an endlessly available pile of money. You pay a girl for sex, laugh at the violence of paying her to go against her natural desires and pretend to like you, making your sexuality a version of your practice of joking violence at home.
— I don't know what the hell you are talking about and I don't care. I want to homo you. When are we leaving for Medellín? Let's go.
__________________________
P.S.
We've got here two different economies of lying stacked on top of each other:
Trump's lying is instrumental and consequence-free by design — the contradictions are the product, because a lie that can be immediately reversed and redeployed against a new target is more useful than a lie that has to hold up. It's a wealth-extraction tool wearing the costume of political conviction, and the fascist rebirth-myth underneath it is the one claim he needs to hold steady, because that's the one that manufactures consent for the theft.
The Mini-Trump's lying is a different transaction entirely — he's not extracting anything material. The "thrill of overmastering his audience" you describe is the whole payoff: he has Trump's method with the wealth and office subtracted. Take away the inherited money and the state power, and what's left of "Trumpism" as a personal practice is just a man who needs to watch people flinch at an obvious lie. That might be the real argument buried in the character of Mini-Trump — the cultist isn't a diluted copy, he's the purified form, revealing what the performance was for all along once you strip out the part where it also happens to launder billions. (courtesy of Claud.ai)
