Fahrenheit 140°

Donald Trump’s presidency is done. Over. No, seriously. This time, his obsessives insist like meth-mottled street urchins—gaunt, moon-eyed and festooned with weeping chancres, it really is the last time. They promise.

Yes, those whose admirable consistency lies in being wrong about everything, are certain, kind of, that we are in the end stages of the Trump presidency.

Pawning syrupy sonnets for small change, the Trump-addicted insist what animates them so wildly, is finally coming to its rightful end.

Last week’s New Yorker haughtily decreed the end stage of the Trump presidency after the raid on Michael Cohen’s office. Of course, for those unriddled with Trump Derangement Syndrome, this “news” likely had the same nebulising effect as the last 2, 638 proclamations of the president’s assured demise.

“This is the week we know, with increasing certainty, that we are entering the last phase of the Trump Presidency,” it went. “This doesn’t feel like a prophecy; it feels like a simple statement of the apparent truth,” The New Yorker’s Adam Davidson feathered, in a few thousand micro-doses of literary Oxycontin soothing to those who see reality, before swiping left.

We’ve been here before. Pawing madly through scandal and squalor, the woke amongst us grope for the latest nostrum with which to exorcise their personal demon cackling in the White House.

Access Hollywood; a recount; the popular vote; an Electoral College revolt—Here’s How Bernie Can Still Win. Not MY President! Invoke the 25th! Russia did this. Zuckerberg helped. Save us, Stormy Daniels.

What are they going to try next, cheeseburgers, and a fishing net?

A magazine which so often, and so eloquently, scribes on the state of mental health provision in America, should perhaps check the collective temperature of its writers and readers, before opining so revealingly.

After all, Trump is still president, despite the glass ceiling of political derangement cascading into millions of glistening shards, each week.  The modern Left is unflinching in pursuit of unbendingly bizarre (and frankly hilarious) behaviour in which its impeccable minions retch over the boundaries of normalcy.

That’s what is most puzzling about the state of the modern Left—the demented belief that “normalcy” will assert itself once Trump is finally gone; as in Hollywood, when the good guys decapitate the hydra, and those under its spell are redeemed.

Such is the desperation of those whose malformed education taught them that Karl Marx was a titanic thinker, and not a feckless louse with notable hygiene issues who devised a philosophy responsible for tree bark soup, and the deaths of 100 million.

Not that they’ve read Marx. If they did, they wouldn’t be socialists. They certainly wouldn’t be mega-phoning a Starbucks “wage slave” for the apparent crimes of an ostensibly woke company that pays him $7.25 an hour.

But such is the madness of maddening crowds. The mob cares little for facts, relevance, reason, logic—any of the bricolage of valuable thought. They are hurting. Someone needs to pay.

Isn’t that what this all boils down to?

A well-adjusted person wouldn’t take time out of her day, for example, to celebrate the death of an old lady. A well-adjusted person certainly wouldn’t spend any time on Twitter. Randa Jarrar did both.

The eminently charming professor of creative writing tweeted she was “happy” that Barbara Bush had passed away. When questioned, the “tenured professor at Fresno,” which, I assume garners the same prestige as winning the Zimbabwe National Lottery, doubled-down on her bile.

She may be just one person. But such behaviour is not untypical of the modern Left and the Resistance.  And it will be their unravelling.

Feverish reports insist that the White House is in “chaos,” that Trump is “on the brink,” and that a blue wave is brewing to wash over this year’s midterms and cleanse the nation of the unfashionable president.

Really? The Democrats’ midterms edge has shrunk from 12 points in January, to just four. Trump’s approval rating remains at 50 per cent.

Unemployment is low. Stock markets are lofting, and even wages have started to rise. The end stages of the Trump presidency? To paraphrase Barack Obama: seven more years.

Whilst most Americans may not approve of the president’s theatrics (32 percent approve of the man himself) 46 per cent are happy with his handling of the economy. The prickly paladin of populism wasn’t elected pope. He was sent to move fast and break things.

And he is getting things done, whilst his detractors cling to a narrative torpedoed by the news that the president is not a target in the Michael Cohen investigation. The blue wave could amount to little more than an inkblot.

Of course, even then the jilted will cut reality with the narcotic of their preferred narrative, and insist on one last hit.

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