Happy Birthday To You, Donald Trump.
I know people who really care about their birthdays. They love the day. They love the celebration. They love it all—and I actually envy them in some ways. I’ve never cared about my birthday. Even when I was little. I’m sure it’s yet another thing to add to the list of childhood trauma. The cause of adulthood messed-upness. Upness apparently isn’t a real word, but that’s OK because there are plenty of things happening now that aren’t in our vocabulary.
Back to birthdays.
I remember, which is surprising because it was eight years ago and I can’t remember what I had for breakfast yesterday, when Trump, after attending Macron’s military parade in Paris and loving every minute of it like a little kid watching tanks lined up on the sidewalk, came home and demanded a military parade in Washington, D.C. for the 4th of July celebration in 2017. It was explained to him—back when we were still a law-abiding, Constitution-following America—that two things made that impossible.
First, the equipment would likely tear up the streets in D.C., which weren’t built to handle that kind of weight, which brings me to another thought I’ve had recently. I’m pretty sure he’s also the fattest president in the last ten years, and I wonder about the old floors on the third floor—but we should only be so lucky.
Now know that I am aware that people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones but I am working on my weight and have been for sixty some years. It takes some time. So does tearing down a country.
Anyway, that wasn’t the real problem. The real problem is that it’s against the law for the U.S. military to parade itself down the streets of our cities. Because it might look like a coup. Our military can’t gather in our cities. Or do I need to say couldn’t.
So now, while 30% of this president’s time has been spent on the golf course, he wants to throw himself a birthday party on the streets of DC. A big one. With tanks and fighter jets flying overhead as he stands in his fatness on the side of the road, surrounded by his sicko suck uppers, hoping he will finally feel like he gets to play in the big leagues.
But at the end of the day, he won’t be happy. Because nobody he wants to be there is ever there. Everybody in his circle is just as much of a loser as the next one standing there. Ok, they have cash, and we know he loves that, but it’s not enough.
Back to the birthday.
The thing to know is that the first time around—eight years ago—they talked him out of it. They, being the people who still had some semblance of sanity, even if they lacked moral fiber. They were able to stop him.
No one stops him now.
I thought about giving Ivanka a call. She and her ridiculous excuse for a husband seemed to be able to stop him when he was about to fully embarrass himself in the past. But not this time. They got their treasure and are on to other things.
Let me save you some time, Donald—and me a lot of money in future taxes—by explaining something. You’re never going to feel like Macron felt in Paris. All those people you’re holding court with may bow to your will, but they will never respect you. They will never like you. They will never think you’re smart.
Just like your father.
Somewhere in your mind, you already know that none of this will bring you pleasure. Because the people who are showing up aren’t people you want to show up. Underneath it all, the people you want to come calling, are not going to come. They aren’t going to clap for you at Kennedy Center. They aren’t going to congratulate you on a golf tournament every single human knows you didn’t win, and you are never going to feel good about yourself or much of anything actually.
And guess who else is not coming?
I’m not coming.
My friends are not coming. And I have really smart friends. I also have really caring friends. Loyal friends. Semi-honest friends. Nobody’s totally honest, so we should at least tell the truth here, right?
You’re in that club that only losers can get into. And us? We’re in that other club—the club that sits on the side of right. The cool group club. And you know what else? No matter what you do to us, no matter how far down the totem pole our country falls in this moment in history—we’ll always be better than you.
And now we don’t just think it.
We’re willing to say it.
You are beneath me. So go ahead and have your birthday party. None of the claps on the back brought by the people surrounding you will mean anything, because I’m not coming.
You get nothing from me but disdain and disgust and plots to take you down.
And I swear to God, if even one of those tanks so much as leaves an oil spot on Pennsylvania Avenue, you will answer to me.
Have your birthday party.
No one I know is going show up.