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​Poor Fat Nixon

SPARE A THOUGHT for poor Fat Nixon, that low-class, highfalutin moron in the White House, who must be catching his flabby, fraudulent, corrupt, criminal, treasonous, trailer-sized ass trying to figure out how to continue riling up his base without actually triggering a race war in America – and the only reason he wouldn’t trigger that war is because he can’t be certain the white supremacists would win.

I’m guessing my name has just been scratched off the invitation list to the American ambassador’s Halloween party.

Seriously, though, if the surest hallmark of genius is the ability to simultaneously entertain contradictory propositions in one’s mind, poor Donald “J for Jackass” Trump is in a monkey pants, because his escape – from both the position he is in, today, and actual prison, if he should lose the next election – would require actual genius – and the poor firetruck can’t even mentally entertain one proposition at a time.

There’s a reason he relies on simple chants and meaningless slogans: he can understand those. Stuff like self-sacrifice, leadership with grace, courage and putting the needs of the country he’s supposed to be leading ahead of his itchy Twitter-finger, that’s just incomprehensible to him.

One of the few other simple things he also fully understands is the direct link between his encouraging his supporters to violence and their actually putting pipe bombs in the mail and opening fire in the mall on the people he directs them to target. What he’s encouraging in the US today is what, in 1960s/70s England, used to be called, “Paki-bashing”.

And it used to be called something else even earlier.

This firetrucker is doing his level best to bring into being an American Kristallnacht; or Kristallnoche.

The scariest moment, for me, of all the very many, very scary Trump moments we’ve all been subjected to since he got off his golden toilet to defecate on American institutions and the world, was not one of the half-dozen now being played on a loop on television. There was a moment even more chilling for me than his open laughter at the suggestion, from one of his potential thugs at one of his MAGA mega-rallies, that Hispanic refugees should be shot. Not even the many fine Nazis he found in Charlottesville after one of them murdered a woman worried me as much as the moment I have in mind.

Which came before the election.

Three years ago, in Orlando, Donald Trump, out of nowhere (other than his own empty soul), to test his personal dictatorship waters, got a packed stadium to raise their right hands and swear an oath to him that they would go out and vote for him.

It wasn’t quite Hitler in Nuremburg or the oath of personal loyalty to der Fuhrer – but it wasn’t that far off, either.

And the last three years – and the last seven days – have shown that the similarities between Adolf Hitler and Donald Trump are no longer wildly fantastical and unimaginable, but very real and happening right before our eyes.

This is how it happened in 1930s Germany. Hitler was a joke that no serious politician, policeman or citizen took seriously.

But what he did to the German people and the world wasn’t at all funny.

Like Trump, Hitler evoked, from his supporters, the very worst aspects of our species.

He played hate like a virtuoso violinist and rode it to what he thought was personal glory. And, en passant, rode the German nation into the ground.

Today, in the USA, Trump is doing the same. Out in the open. And the Republican party is fast becoming the American Nazi Party; like Hitler’s supporters, they are identifying more and more with the American Fuhrer.

They may be wearing red hats instead of brown shirts and the most weak-minded of the future American Nazis may be persuading themselves that they’re doing it “for the unborn”, but the US has never been more poised for collapse into fascism than in this very moment we all occupy.

So spare a thought for Fat Nixon today. Send him your thoughts and prayers and all, if you like. And pray like Hell that he can somehow stumble past this moment, when the choice is between riling up his base and igniting hatred, just to keep himself warm and his ambitions ticking over.

Because there is something far worse for the world than Fat Nixon.

And that is Fat Firetrucking Hitler.

BC Pires would rather walk this way than make the trains run on time the Mussolini way

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