Like An Engine That Won’t Turn Over

There seems to be a tireless effort on the part of those who have no liking for Trump to find some charge that will stick, pursue some line of attack that will produce a conviction of some sort. But one could get the feeling that there is and will be nothing—despite all the current cases and efforts—that will end in a conviction. Nothing. Lots of smoke, no fire. He’s gonna outrun all of it.

And maybe this is the game for him. Maybe this is all he lives for, what gets him out of bed in the morning. He enjoys this endless cat and mouse. What could be sweeter for the person who aspires to nothing more than being a 75-year old attention hound?

This has all been the textbook definition of an exercise in futility. He’s a boil on our collective ass, America. We need to stop giving him the time of day. Though ignoring him probably isn’t going to make him go away.

It’s a sad situation. The manchild has no sense of propriety, no plans on exiting the stage for the good of the country. It’s always been about what’s right for him, to the exclusion of everything and everyone else.

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