You know that feeling when you walk in on your kid doing something that infuriates you but you have to keep your shit together because kids are goddamned kids? Well, there was this one night, back when my son was a toddler. He’d just gotten his Big Boy Bed – a Disney Cars bed – and we were all adjusting to the change. On this particular evening, we’d put him to bed just like every other night. We sat in the living room and caught up on some Treme or Breaking Bad and nothing but silence came from the child’s room. Until, of course, the thud. It wasn’t like the normal thuds I hear from his room. Not the sound of a tiny foot hitting the wall during a toss or a turn. No, this was a toy hitting the hardwood floor thud, and so I had no choice but to investigate.
What I saw when I opened his bedroom door made me see red. Literally and figuratively. The child had gotten out of his Big Boy Bed – easier than ever to get out of – found a red marker in his closet, and proceeded to colour literally everything in his room red. His pillowcases, the wall, his dresser, the floor, his brand new shoes. He looked up at me, startled and I saw he’d even managed to colour his entire face red. I was fuming, in the middle of counting to ten so I didn’t completely lose it on the little guy, when his cherubic little face, all covered in red marker, stretched into a grin at the sight of his mommy. He beamed at me and melted my mommy heart, and I kneeled and let him jump into my arms, getting red marker all over myself in the process.
All those feelings and emotions I had experienced that night way back when my son was two are all the same emotions I get when I try to catch up with the latest US election news. It’s like walking into a toddler’s bedroom and seeing he’s ruined everything, but you can’t be mad because you love him so much.
I dunno what the fuck y’all are doing down there, but you have to put the red marker down. This isn’t funny anymore.
First you have Donald Trump. He’s like your chubby little follically-challenged son who hawked your wedding ring, smashed your television, drowned your cat and shot the dog. You find out one day, as well, that he’s hacked the neighbour family to pieces and buried them under your hydrangeas.
It’s not until he boasts about grabbing someone’s cootchie, though, that you decide it’s time to draw the line. That is the straw that broke the proverbial camel’s back. It wasn’t the harassment accusations, or the fact that he calls everyone a loser. It’s not the lies he’s been caught in over and over again, and it’s not even the fact that he called all Mexicans rapists and wants to build a wall to keep out the most colourful and spicy culture that is so deeply connected to what it means to be an American.
De fucking nada. It’s when he talked about groping vaginas that you decided: enough is enough.
Most of the men I know in my life, would never talk about women like that, it’s true. But what he said is nothing more than something to pity the fucker for. It’s no reason for outrage. All it means, is that this poor, pumpkin-colored buffoon will never know what it’s like to have a deep connection with the opposite sex. He’ll never have the joy of falling in love with his best friend, because all he sees in women is a moist hole to grab; an accessory to trade in when the new model comes out. He had done far worse before this, and I fail to see why this is where you draw the line.
Draw the line, that is, until he flips his combover to the side as he looks up at you with that round face the shade of regurgitated carrots only a mother could love, and your heart melts.
Awww, that’s my Donald. C’mere. Come to Mommy. Say, ‘you’re fired’ for me, honey. It’s so cute when you do that.
Then you have Donald’s older sister, Hillary. Slightly more experienced and polished, the scheming teen does her homework diligently, puts her dishes away and keeps her room tidy. But when everyone goes to sleep, she tiptoes downstairs to open the backdoor for all her shady boyfriends to come in and steal shit.
You will gladly bend over, clasping your ass cheeks apart so a TSA agent can shove an illuminated rod up your poop chute, just to know the plane you’re boarding set to depart Fresno for Seaside, Oregon in an hour isn’t full of shoe-bomb toting Middle Easterners planning to turn your day to shit. You will happily let security agents invade your privacy beyond anyone’s comfort zone, but you won’t hold Hillary accountable for practically handing state secrets over to the bad guys on a fucking deli platter with havarti, some goddamned gorgonzola and some tasty-as-fuck genoa salami. Nope, she can threaten national security by using personal email all she wants, but when it comes time to hop on a plane from Bowling Green, Kentucky to Grand Forks, North Dakota, you’d even let those TSA agents grab your fucking pussy.
America, when I click those trending hashtags on Twitter and get an injection of election news right to my jugular, I just feel like a mom who’s walked in on her toddler ruining his room.
What. The Fuck. Is going on? It’s almost as though you’ve been basted with the Kardashian losertainment so long, you’ve blurred the line between reality television and actual fucking reality. This election is a gong show, and it’d be a hilarious gong show if I didn’t love you assholes so fucking much.
I don’t even know what to say about it, anymore. I think you’ve gone too far on the crazy train. This isn’t something you can wash off in the bath. The next stop, it seems to me, is a crumbled empire.
I will miss those little beignets you get on the Mississippi in New Orleans; I’ll miss the the ding of the San Francisco cable car arriving and I’ll miss all those masterfully written television series’ you export to my country.
America, I will miss your little smiling face, oblivious and happy, all covered in red.