This is no doubt true, but it doesn’t account for the down-low spitefulness with which Trump pursues his aims. I mean, hating Mexicans and Muslims is popular all over the land, and taking health coverage away from the indigent is no big deal, because they were going to die of something anyway, but to dump on the Coast Guard? Nobody hates the Coast Guard.
Except a man who’s not getting any sex from his wife. I suspect the Head of State is being denied by his spouse. First of all, would you be having Twitter tirades at 4 AM if you had just been satisfied by the sex star of Slovenia? I know I wouldn’t. I’d be drifting off to dreamland in a contented glow, thinking generous thoughts like “Who needs a wall and healthcare reform? Why shouldn’t people be able to keep their Obamacare and their landscaping crew? And remind me, honey, to get that puppy I promised Sean Spicer.”
If Melania and I were making our love nest in Trump Tower, I’d also murmur, “And goodnight to you too, Barack,” just in case.
But we’re not getting that from our President. He is exhibiting all the behaviors of a man cut off from his nookie. He’s lashing out at everybody, from the cast of SNL to Preet Bharara to Meryl Streep. He’s sublimated his sex drive into spasms of executive orders.
Possibly he’s fantasizing about Betsy DeVos naked.
Now, before you recoil in horror from this image, remember, the man is more to be pitied than blamed. No one really knows what goes on between two people, and Trump bought Melania fair and square from her father, in the time-honored tradition of European arranged marriages. Of course, he thought that she came with a guaranteed lifetime supply of sex, and he’s understandably bitter that she’s having a permanent headache in Manhattan while he roams the White House in his bathrobe, alone, listening to Steve Bannon snore off another whiskey and Adderal binge.
Let’s have some empathy for Melania, too. She didn’t sign up for this, either, and by that I don’t mean being First Lady. I mean being guarded by the Secret Service all the time so she can’t have sex with the pool boy or her personal trainer, which I’m sure she regarded as a necessary relief from her marital duties. “They're going to be installing a new Ice Age in Hell before he grinds that pasty golf gut up against my creamy, unblemished skin again,” is what she’s probably thinking.
And she can think that in six different languages.
But we’re begging you, Melania (I know, I know—so is he). Do your duty. Lie on your back and think of America next weekend in Mar el Lago.
Oh, right, I forgot. You’re not from here.