The Loneliness of the Long Distance Trumpster
It’s like, out here in President Trump country, there’s nothing we can do to help the president. Whichever red precinct we occupy, or especially if our home is adrift in a sea of blue, there’s an occasional feeling of helplessness. That’s just what the left wants us to feel. We can’t vote for Trump again until 2020. With a few special election exceptions, we can’t vote for Republicans who are supposed to have his back until 2018.
Even if we contributed money to the Trump campaign, for working class citizens, it seems counterintuitive to send money to a multi-billionaire now. It doesn’t seem like money is what is needed. We had no use for political “architects” like Karl Rove during the campaign because they were not sufficiently on board with the program; now we find ourselves wishing there was such an advisor on the team to smooth out the protocol and communications gaffes and to give advice on the wonky B.S. that a businessman like Trump probably has always delegated to underlings. A guy like Rove, or Newt Gingrich, to guide Trump along the lines of what is worthy of his time and response, and what is not.
On most days, it seems as if all the middle American Trump supporter can do is sit back and take it, as the unhinged Democrat left, maximized for influence in media, academia, the federal judiciary, and pop culture, looses the hounds of political hell on the great orange hope. Even though the Trump-generated precinct map of the United States runs redder than the bleed-outs from an appalling terrorist attack, we are marginalized in the national conversation.
It’s all Fox News, conservative radio, and conservative internet sites like PJ Media can do to mount even a semblance of fairness, let alone the robust defense Trump’s supporters long for.
We knew it would be bad, but not this bad. We figured Trump would get the George W. Bush treatment, as in default ridicule, illegitimacy before the fact, and the tiresome “not my president” shenanigans that soured like spilt milk on Election Day in November 2004. Real Time host Bill Maher has said that he never thought he would miss Bush 43, and these days he’s openly pining for Mitt Romney. Don’t believe any of it. Whichever Republican won would have been scathed and delegitimized. But it is a testament to the extreme distress and loathing Trump causes that Maher even posits such nonsense.
What Trumpsters in the virtual heartland—wherever that territory exists on the map—weren’t prepared for was a concentrated, hysterical effort to render the presidency of Donald Trump a historical footnote, a mistake, an impeachable offense on its face, something that cannot be countenanced. From election night, through the inauguration and the first 100 days, the onslaught has continued unabated. It is so furiously relentless that in dark moments those who liked Trump from the outset—because he was new blood, was talking the talk they hoped he would walk, and promised (among many other things) to drain a moribund, globalist federal government swamp —may start to question themselves.