You
can call it “International
Deal Making” or,
you can call it what it is — Global
Gaslighting!
As
the world he’s helped drag to the brink —
chaos, mayhem, and economic upheaval on all
sides — begins to implode, Donald Trump does
what he does best: walks away. ”Ceremony for
fallen soldiers, mass layoffs, and a
volatile stock
market, but what’s Pres Trump doing? Attending
a Saudi golf tournament at his resort,” said
Rep. Darren Soto (D-Fla.). “He fiddles while
Rome burns.”
Yes,
let’s call this trifling performance what it
is: Global
Gaslighting, Season 8: Apocalypse Edition.
Because
— and brace yourself — isn’t that exactly what
Trump is doing?
He’s
back on the world stage, rumblin’, stumblin’,
bumblin’ through summits and trade talks like
a chainsaw juggler on a unicycle, chest puffed
like a prize ox, dipped in Cheeto dust,
imagining himself the reincarnation of TV
land’s Lets
make a Deal’s Monty
Hall.
Yes,
dear reader, Emperor Trump — the self-anointed
Grand Negotiator, the Intercontinental
Deal-Making Demigod — has once again pulled
out the Tariff
Hammer of Doom and
whacked the global economy like it owes him
money.
Wall
Street? Backhanded with brass knuckles, even
though they had to see it comin’! We all had
to see it comin’ - he told us it was comin’!
Perhaps we should believe him when he tries to
tell us who and what he
is, what he wants to
do to the world.
And
the tariffs are for what? To "protect American
workers”? Trump’s tariffs are about as
protective as a paper umbrella in a monsoon.
They don’t “bring jobs back” — they just jack
up prices on American consumers, rattle mom n’
pop businesses, and tank retirement portfolios all
while Trump grins, poses for a photo, and
calls it “winning.”
“Don’t stand in the ashes
and tell me the fire never happened.”
Let
me be both sharp and blunt: We are—every last
one of us—expendable. Replaceable. Disposable.
The collateral damage in Trump's tragic comedy
of trade wars and spoiled toddler diplomacy.
We are the blurry background extras in the
reboot of The
Art of the Deal: The Extinction Event.
And
the economic/emotional cruelty doesn’t stop at
the stock market. No no. The fallout crashes
right through the doors of American factories,
farms, and Waffle
Houses. The
very places where Trump’s most devout
supporters spend their days — and their
dwindling paychecks.
Because
here’s the tragicomic twist: It’s not us, the
sworn enemies of MAGA — the dreamers, the
thinkers, the so-called coastal elites —
who’ll pay the highest price. No,
not even, it’s the loyal rank-and-file — the
Red State redneck patriots who bought the
snake oil, wrapped themselves in flags, and
saluted their own funeral procession. These
are the folks now blinking in shock as their
golden god tries to torch the New Deal,
bulldoze the Great Society, and drown the
dream of economic security in a bathtub of
tariffs and tears.
This
betrayal is Cecil B. Demille's Ten
Commandments epic biblical level. A backstabbing of
gigantic
proportions. A
fake, phony, synthetic
populist strongman sacrificing his most
faithful followers — the blue-collar backbone
of his movement — to enrich his royal court of
Mar-a-Lago monarchs, con
men,
and country-club fascists. It’s a MAGA passion
play where working-class White Americans become
the ultimate martyrs.
Have
you seen this, for lack of a more apropos
term, Trump’s con lady pushing
this jive-ass scheme: If
You Give Paula
White $1,000,
God Will Give You An Angel (Pastor Paula
White-Cain is The Senior Advisor of Trump’s
White House Faith Office)? No
words, none.
And
let’s not forget what’s really being gutted:
The almost mythical American
Dream and
MLK’s dream of a colorblind America
- where we are judged not by skin or class or
whom we love, but by the content of our
character.
Remember
that dream? Yeah — Trump set it on fire and
roasted multi-colored marshmallows over the
ashes.
But
the faithful followed. Mainstream European
Americans have hitched their all wheel drive
wagons — and their children's futures — to a
soulless carnival barker. And I’m being gracious when
I say that. Because this man, this absurdly
coiffed conjurer of catastrophe, is a
cold-blooded executioner of hope, a destroyer
of dreams, and a nuclear missile aimed
directly at America’s unwashed masses.
Oh
why can’t the blind see?!
And
as I stated, the cruelest, most jaw-dropping
irony? It won’t be Harvard-educated liberals
or the uppity Black Buppies from Howard who
feel the scorch of Trump’s "economic
nationalism.” Check it: It’ll be the White
working class — the coal miners, factory
hands, truckers, farmers, and steelworkers —
the people he promised prosperity, but
instead handed tariffs, inflation, chaos,
and a 401k with seasonal depression.
We’re
talking:
Serfs. Peasants. The
unskilled, undervalued, unseen cogs in this
rigged machine. The Heartland folks who do
work from “can’t see to can’t see.” The
factory-floor cannon fodder of late-stage
capitalism’s most flamboyant cutthroat con
job.
So
go ahead. Go
tell it on the mountain.
Shout it through the cornfields,
the shuttered textile mills, the collapsing
towns with boarded-up dreams. Cry it from the
Walmarts and Golden Corrals The emperor is
naked, sunburned, and carrying a flamethrower.
And
guess what? He just raised tariffs on your
lunch.
