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I was reminded of my Mom yesterday, as I watched Donald take his farcical stroll over to St. John’s Church to hold his prop Bible aloft, making God only knows what point in the process. I know what she would have said. Many years ago, now, we were watching the news when an item aired about former Nova Scotia Premier John Buchanan – as corrupt a crony-coddling dispenser of patronage as ever held elected office – being sworn in to the Federal Senate, his appointment to that sinecure marking yet another shining moment in the lustrous legacy of Brian Mulroney. Part of the swearing-in ceremony required the happy bastard to kiss a Bible, and as his puckered mouth made contact with the Good Book, Mom muttered there is no God. If there was, Honest John there would have been struck dead on the spot. He’d have gone the way of Lot’s wife as soon as his filthy lying lips met the leather binding. A blue bolt carrying 700 billion volts would have left nothing but a smoking hole and a dissipating cloud of vaporized grifter where once stood the slithering, pork-slathering pile of sentient road apples.

The folks at the Jimmy Kimmel show were thinking along similar lines:

If only. But Mom, as ever, was right.

You could disappear permanently down the rabbit hole of trying to decide what was the worst, most horrifying aspect of Trump’s little photo op. Was it that he was surrounded by idiots with their heads so far up their own backsides that they thought the optics of Fat Donny slouching over to the church to claim Christ’s endorsement would be favourable? Was it that Trump only did it to show he wasn’t actually the chicken-shit bunker-dwelling coward he surely was – and that he chose to display his manly prowess by striding boldly across the street protected by a battalion of armoured thugs who looked like they were outfitted to beat back a marauding Mongol horde?

Was it being forced to wonder what sort of hair trigger these guys were on, and what they might do if somebody chucked a brick in the general direction of the Emperor’s noble procession?

Was it that to facilitate the little romp, a peaceful gathering of protestors, including clergy from the visited church, had to be hurriedly displaced in the most vicious manner possible by virtual shock troops dispensing tear gas, rubber bullets, and random beat-downs? Was it the mind-roasting, retina-searing image of His Trumpness grasping the Bible with something like puzzled reluctance, as if it might go off in his hands like a faulty grenade, and he wasn’t sure why he was taking the chance? Was it that none of the stunned fuckwits who trailed along in his wake seemed to have any idea what they were supposed to do, standing there aimlessly in the shadow of the unfamiliar edifice, once they’d arrived? Was it that nobody bothered to check out the route first, and thought twice about parading the President in front of graffiti that hollered FUCK TRUMP in great big black letters?

Was it that the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff stamped his seal of approval on the fiasco by traipsing along in Donald’s entourage wearing combat fatigues instead of his dress uniform, appearing to support Orange Idi’s view that it was time for the Regular Army to roll in and deal with all these rambunctious civilians – when the finest traditions of his service required him not just to blanche at the prospect of getting the military involved, but to refuse and resign rather than lend his moral support to Trump’s fascist posturing? Was it that the whole idea of this adulterous, lying, cheating, racist, tax-evading, sex-offending embodiment of the Seven Deadly Sins clutching a holy book, as if to proclaim Gott Mit Uns, was repugnant enough to make even a stone athiest woof his cookies? Was it that once Herr Donald got his picture taken, he immediately stopped waving the Bible around and simply scurried back to his bunker, talking to nobody, engaging with no one, his narrow, cynical mission accomplished? Was it the agony of contemplating the destruction of America’s global standing as once again, and now more than ever, the whole world greeted Trump’s antics with laughter, scorn, and the sort of derision that used to be reserved for the manipulative, risibly tone deaf image-manufacturing assholery of deranged North Korean despots?

Or was it imagining Trump’s wounded reaction to the savage media blowback from this latest PR lead balloon, thinking of him railing at the cable news and plotting his next move, which would definitely show all those nattering nabobs of negativism what a real man he was, and wondering: what could possibly come next?

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