With under eighty days until voters here in the United States go to the polls to put an end to this long, strange performance art piece that has been our presidential election, we can only begin to imagine what twists and turns still await us. The trick is, we don't want to imagine too hard, since the way things have been rolling, we wouldn't want to put any ideas in anybody's head. There seems to be some room, admittedly, but anything that finds its way into those dark and scary places is just a seed for more craziness.
Like, for example: Donald Truhup apologized last week. Who could have seen that coming? "Sometimes, in the heat of debate and speaking on a multitude of issues, you don’t choose the right words or you say the wrong thing," said the newly contrite tangerine metaphor for the Antichrist. As part of the restructuring of his campaign, Mister Prumt was trying out a new persona. He realized that he had caused some "personal pain," but went on to say that part of the reason why he rarely apologizes is because he is so rarely wrong. As I suggested earlier, the lines between fantasy and reality have become so blurred. Really blurred.
The Grand Old Party's last best hope may have come in the form of this reformation, not from the resignation of Paul Manafort, but because of the Dickensian rewrite of the essential character of their chosen one. If a series of revelations were visited upon Mister Tearump by spirits from the past, the present, and the future and when he awoke from his tempestuous dream, his whole world outlook had changed. No more snarky iinsults. No more insensitive comments about race, creed, religion, sexual orientation or any number of personal pain. A brand new day. A brand new Trumpsch.
Can you believe it?
I don't know about you, but I don't. But that's kind of the way things have been going for the past two years. Curiouser and curiouser. But repentant? Let's get real, shall we?