Ever since the election, a mystery haunts: Why would the working class vote for this rich asshole?
He’s nothing like our real working class heroes. Bernie Sanders? Looks broke swimming in diamonds. Speaking of diamonds: “Diamond Joe”? He lives eternal in our hearts, always wearing jorts, always polishing his Trans Am. AOC? Slinging drinks, throwing chonklas at your grandma.
In contrast, which leaders were born rich, swollen with grace, floating through the ether on cashmere sweater-carpets? These guys, that’s who: Hillary Clinton, Pete Buttigieg, Michael Bloomberg, Elizabeth Warren… the 82 other democrats who ran in 2020… and, yes, Kamala. Now, I’m sure they’d all be enthused to tell us about how their parents were factory workers on dirt farms, and sometimes it’s even true. But, still, when I watch any of them speak, I feel my stature. (It’s short.) Their little suits fit just so. They smile so gracefully, with no joy to muck it up. They gesture to their words and not to you. Their thoughts are carried on champagne bubbles.
You? Your little suits are rumpled. Your smile is crooked as hell. Your gestures might be tics. You’re drunk on an Instagram mocktail recipe again. Is anyone less classy than you?
Yes. Donald Trump is less classy than you. It doesn’t matter how many millions DJT gathers with meme coins, perfumes, sneakers, reverse casinos, blockchain chain blocks. Those millions mean nothing. DJT will die real. He reeks of authenticity. You know what else he reeks of? White Tic Tacs, well done steak and ketchup, Irish Spring soap. Does he smell like that small batch bourbon from that stylish distillery in Austin, Texas? No. You know he only drinks Diet Coke and movie popcorn butter.
He always wanted to be them, graceful and erudite. Accepted for his ascendant charm. But he couldn’t. Because, well, he’s a buffoon. His jokes are not very funny, except when they are (and sometimes they really are). He decks out his pad in 24 karat. He looks a lot like you if you were 80 and bloated, but only if you also had an unerring instinct for playing to the crowd. (You don’t.)
And it’s endearing, whether we like it or not. (We don’t.) (Sometimes we do.)
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