September 14, 2020
Author: Chilton Williamson

True or not, an accepted fact seems to be that, beyond establishment Republicans, neoconservatives, Democrats, and other leftists, that class of Americans that most distrusts and dislikes  Donald Trump is suburban women—including those who voted for him in 2016– who, we told once and again every day of the week, are set to vote for Joe Biden in November. Though I have limited experience of the breed, having lived all my life in either deep city or deep country—Manhattan and Wyoming, to be exact—I suspect I can guess pretty accurately why this should be so.

It is simply that an appreciation and understanding of Mr. Trump, the man as well as the politician, requires imagination and a sense of humor that is generally found lacking among corporate CEOs, lawyers, armchair imperialists wishing to make over the world in the image of their country as they imagine it from their offices in New York and Washington to be, editorial writers,  other politicians, and the type of female described in shorthand as “soccer moms.” Real humor is a form of naughtiness that takes pleasure in the discrepancies between what is acceptable because it is expected, and what is not acceptable because it is unexpected. Humor is not necessarily for naughty people, but it is surely for people who have a naughty streak that they are not afraid to indulge, and the imagination to understand why indulging it is a healthy and human thing. Serious people, including those in the above-mentioned categories, who understand and appreciate only serious and expected things and have a natural horror of naughtiness and the unexpected, cannot fairly be expected to have a sense of humor themselves. Probably they fear, in their fearful earnestness, that naughtiness might run away with them and their expectations—with their world and even with their own selves, which naughtiness might cause them to view in unfamiliar perspective; a thing that is always unsettling and frequently frightening.

Anyway, I am inspired to such reflection every time I read in the press or hear on television talk shows that President Trump is un-presidential, that he is a disgrace to his high office, that he is unpredictable, that he is disruptive, that he is frequently rude and insulting (usually meaning that that he speaks the unexpected truth about some person or group of persons hitherto respected and fawned upon), that he is disdainful of protocol, that he does not play by the book: In short, that the President is a naughty man in ways having nothing to do with his romantic past. That he is usually naughty in a humorous way always goes unnoticed. Indeed, I have never heard anyone say, whether in praise or criticism of him, that Donald Trump is a funny man, as Churchill was. Apparently, no one else whether in America or abroad shares my sense of humor, the English—astonishingly—included. But what else was he while debating his 16 opponents in the Republican primary four years ago, which he turned into a serial Punch and Judy show by wielding his rhetorical paddle and flooring long respectable (and humorless, and therefore defenseless) frauds, windbags, and stuffed shirts left and right?  Or when on his state visits to Europe he treated the Continental politicoes (in truth, most of them merely gilded bureaucrats in service to Brussels) like the spongers, parasites, and debt scofflaws they are? Whoever has failed to see humor in such episodes would be unable to appreciate the works of Rabelais, Cervantes, or even Mark Twain, unless he had had a drink or two beforehand. And, most likely, not even then.

Indeed, apart from his long list of accomplishments in fulfillment of his campaign promises as listed the other day by Liz Peek in her column, Trump’s business is about his many and frequent acts of lèse majesté, all of them at the expense of the national and international shit elit, the humorless and unimaginative American liberal booboisie, liberal pieties, and liberalism itself. If there is any justice in this world, President Trump’s administration will have been the first act of one of the greatest serio-comedic dramas known to history, to be followed, commencing next January, with a conclusion as rousingly refreshing—and as hugely productive—as its predecessor. I personally intend to have a ticket, in the form of a ballot vote, to enjoy the production as it unfolds.