What a disappointment Kamala Harris is, not to the progressives who are falling in line if not in love, but to Donald Trump, who has no strong women around him and knows little about the type, except that he can’t really stand them. As late as Sunday night returning from his two hundredth and something golfing day, Trump believed the veep choice would be Spyin’ Susan Rice, or Kuba Kommunist Karen Bass, easy for him to reduce to avatars of the radical left out to destroy the suburbs, defund the police, raise taxes, turn cities into killing fields, and put kale on the lunch menu at schools if those face-covered, socially distancing Democrats ever agree to open them.
In a pinch, for Harris, he dredged up meanie (to his people and to Joe Biden, no less), power-hungry (she broke the last glass ceiling on open ambition), and, his fallback insult for women, nasty. Every time he hurls that one, another swing voter gets her wings and flies into a Democrat’s arms. Our cruel-nicknamer-in-chief also took madwoman and angry out for spins until aides told him to drop the loaded terms. Going back to his “birther” roots, Trump amplified a debunked theory about how maybe Kamala wasn’t really American, and thus allowed on the ticket.
Trump’s problem is that he’s George Wallace in the ’50s warning suburban voters of an influx of, um, others lowering their property values when most moms there would be thrilled to have Harris and her family move in next door. Trump’s campaign and the RNC can’t decide whether Harris is proof a “left-wing mob” has taken over the party or a Wall Streeter with her thumb in the eye of Black Lives Matter.