Before last night’s neon obscenity — a Trump rally on the South Lawn of the American White House — the 2020 Republican National Convention was close to cartoonish in its attempt to scare the country into voting for Donald J. Trump. It began as dark comedy with a cast of family members, supplicants, incompetents, political ne’er do wells and loud worshippers of a guy who never really believed he’d win on that long-gone night in November 2016 but now thinks he belongs on Mount Rushmore.
As each day melted into the next, though, there were no laugh-lines. Only the specter of a dark hand with a gun and a knock on your door, the mob empowered by Democrat radicals come to take your life, your dreams. By the time that Donald emerged from the White House — think about it, the White House — to deliver his convention speech on Thursday night, you could feel the nuts and bolts holding together this nearly two hundred and forty-five year old Republic loosening with each assault on a form of government that has stood through civil war, depressions, injustice and the stain of racism.
Now here he was, an accidental president who stumbled into the job and is scrambling to hold on to it, despite the disasters on his watch. He is an expert on very few things but is a genius in recognizing the disease of resentment and bitterness in people who feel left behind and left out. Trump is a social arsonist who sets the fire and is warmed watching it grow.