The Rude Pundit was on the verge of writing an angry wee blog post about dwarf-handed pigfucker Donald Trump and his lies (motherfucker did say he would start a registry of Muslims), lying (cockknob's racist tweet of racist stats put forth by racists, like him), bullshit (dick-weasel didn't see "thousands and thousands" of people cheering in Jersey City as the Twin Towers fell because there weren't thousands and thousands of Arabs or Muslims or whatever in Jersey City in 2001), outrage (jizz-gobbler said he thought a black protester beaten at his rally should have been roughed up), and outrageousness (bitchface put out a video of Hillary Clinton laughing while the Benghazi compound burns). Goddamn, what a fucking bounty, just in one weekend, like the glory days of the bathhouses in Chelsea, just ripe and tumescent for the picking.
And then the Rude Pundit thought about a book he read months ago. It's Bird Box by Josh Malerman, and it's one of the creepiest damn novels of the last couple of years (that this guy has read). But it also provides us with a useful metaphor. See, Bird Box takes place after creatures from somewhere have taken over the earth. The catch is that as long as you don't look at the things, you'll have a chance to survive. If you do, though, you'll go mad and you'll kill yourself, perhaps taking others with you in the process. And, no, there is no Medusa-mirror solution here. People are forced to exist in houses with all the windows covered and, if they must leave, they have to go outside blindfolded so they don't accidentally glimpse a monster. Some characters can't help themselves or some just stumble, and the madness takes over. But for those who are brave enough to keep their eyes covered, they have still have to hear the things and feel them when they are close; they just get to keep their sanity and their lives.
Goddamnit, we don't have to respond every time Donald Trump, a syphilitic screamer who is half carnival barker, half cut-rate Mussolini, spews out something, either in one of his loudmouthed phone interviews or on his Twitter account, where he or his minions articulate his brand of brainwashing the useless mouth-breathing ass-pickers who are his voters clamor for. Trump himself regularly calls for boycotts of companies that annoy him in some meaningless way. The editor of The Daily Beast is saying we should boycott Trump products because the man himself is such a twat-flea.
But what if we boycotted Trump? What if we just decided that looking at him, listening to him, giving him airtime every single speech or tweet or fucked-up expression of ego that he's pretending is policy is driving us insane? What if we decide to wear blindfolds and allow him to rant and rage, but let him do it in a fucking vacuum, with no coverage? Go all in: kick him out of the GOP debates because he's a blithering hatemonger, a wealthy dilettante playing games with the minds of the idiotic. Oh, sure, he'll go nutzoid, say it's because we're all frightened of him and his silent majority (who, fuck you, are heard more than any liberal movement anywhere in the U.S.). Ignore that, too.
Trump is still here because we have said that the things he spouts are within the realm of decency, and that's only because he's rich. Without his money, he'd be debating rats about who gets the best pizza crusts. And while all of the GOP candidates are wanton suckers of goat cock, maybe one of them could have the straight-up balls to say, "Yeah, fuck this. I'm not appearing on the same stage with this asshole." It'd get you more coverage, John Kasich, than 100 proposals to create a Department of How Awesome Jesus Is (and, Sure, Jews) in your pretend administration.
Maybe it's time to stop ourselves from going completely over the edge.
(Note: This is as much a fantasy as Trump becoming president. We'll all keep talking about his brain vomit.)