I've discovered a character I'll call the Mini-Trump, someone who, like the president, inherited money and makes a joke out of appearing crazy. In Trump's case the appearance of craziness is an example of kayfabe. Kayfabe is the obviously unreal, intentionally unconvincing drama with its roots in 19th century circus performance that is practiced these days in wrestling's fake violent martial competition. Trump, you must understand, is a fan of wrestling's kayfabe and sometimes even participates in it.
Watch him at it. See that for every crime he commits he launches a preventative, reality demolishing attack on politicians and members of the news media, accusing them of all the crimes he himself actually commits. Trump's lies are openly in contradiction to each other. He is both victim and savior as he plays his leading role in rituals of national rebirth, that is, fascism, where the false claim is made of national decline (false except as caused by his own actions) that only he can reverse, only with the help, though, of his followers, and one bright day in the future all will be recovered and the strength of the government and its leader returned.
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 wants. 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 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 and opponents alike. Tucker Carlson says Trump is the funniest man he ever met. The Democrat comedian Bill Maher, invited to a White House dinner in his honor, was surprised, he said, that Trump smiles and laughs — and he, he says, as a professional funnyman, knows real laughter, would know if it were fake. Also at the dinner, by the way, was Dana White, kayfabe adept and president and chief executive officer of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, and 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 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.
Here then is the interview. I hope to uncover how much of this Trump-like behavior is conscious, how much not. He speaks first.
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 wants. 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 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 and opponents alike. Tucker Carlson says Trump is the funniest man he ever met. The Democrat comedian Bill Maher, invited to a White House dinner in his honor, was surprised, he said, that Trump smiles and laughs — and he, he says, as a professional funnyman, knows real laughter, would know if it were fake. Also at the dinner, by the way, was Dana White, kayfabe adept and president and chief executive officer of the Ultimate Fighting Championship, and 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 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.
Here then is the interview. I hope to uncover how much of this Trump-like behavior is conscious, how much not. He speaks first.
— Why can't I homo you?
— Because you're a psychopath.
— I'm a sociopath. 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?
— There's 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 girl pretends to like you but she doesn't and you know it, but what do you care? I appear to hate you and you think, 'Kayfabe! he doesn't really hate me,' but I do! I imagine you in Colombia waking up in an alley drugged, naked and robbed.
— 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.
— 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?
— There's 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 girl pretends to like you but she doesn't and you know it, but what do you care? I appear to hate you and you think, 'Kayfabe! he doesn't really hate me,' but I do! I imagine you in Colombia waking up in an alley drugged, naked and robbed.
— 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.
