I'm with the man with the small hands, the Tourette poser with the fake hair. He says it like it is; doesn't heel to anybody any day. And that makes me shiver.
He says and does to people what I wish I could—what I wish I could in my they-so-deserve-that mind. He doesn't shy about the dress-down, the shock-slap, the goody-two-shoes polite police. He puts people in their place.
Why am I here? You have to know. When you've seen the dream is shit, when you gave it all to make it big and now just can't, you want someone who did, who lets you forget it all—because he is going to be one hell of a ride to watch. You like the idea of it all out there in chaos: White House in red velvet and his mouth telling all the tidy-pants types where to stuff it.
Yes, sometimes it feels like it's a game to him; like you are one of the dogs in the ring set to fight, draw blood, be the spectacle. But it doesn't matter. It doesn't hurt if he doesn't love you, doesn't care. It doesn't matter if this is all about him and you're just a fan. It doesn't matter if he doesn't have a plan.
You want to dream a bit. You want something a bit far from this reality. You want the adrenaline of "he didn't say that" again and again, until your system joneses for it. You want that spike of rage, that verbal shock and awe to be there day and night because life is so boring and this is better.
You wish you were a bit more outrageous. If he comes to Idaho, you will be: over the top, out front where he'll see you. You'll scream like he's a Beatle and you're a doe-eyed girl—because watching him makes you feel that way; like you're skipping school and breaking the rules; like your skirt's too short and your words are red graffiti and it feels so good to hold that spray can.
You believe in every part of you that there are good people and bad people in the world. You don't recognize shades of gray and believe the details are the devil. You just thank God you're one of the ones he calls good and you hope that never changes, because for sure he's a man who knows his mind and if he were ever wrong, no one could tell him that. No one.
So you read up on voting, on what this dumb game is because you want to play. You want to stick it to the university-know-it-alls who've lorded over you your whole life. You want your Clinton-loving boss to suck it on Election Day. Suck it long and hard. She and her no-political-signs-in-the-workplace rules. But she has a Clinton sticker on her hybrid SUV and the guy in accounting is always writing "Feel the Bern" on the temp workers' tiny paychecks, and you think that's a little funny but really just want your signed photo of The Donald hanging on your cubicle wall.
But no, it would make Imelda in management uncomfortable or Amena up the hall feel unwelcome, even though you've almost convinced Amena to vote for Trump.
Make America Great Again. To you, this is like a shining promise because there was a time when we didn't talk about race all the time. Once we didn't feel so guilty for being white. Once we didn't have immigrants and refugees two doors down or at work, where we had to feel bad if we said the things we felt. Once we all dreamed of big mansions and limousines and there was nothing wrong with that. Once we could talk about what we made or owned and didn't feel bad about that either. We didn't feel bad about being better than other people.
Then we didn't even make that product any more. Then the pensions crashed on Wall Street and our jobs went overseas. The terrorists came and everything was hell-bent on getting to hell.
So, yeah. Make America Great Again. Let's finally win the schlong-size competition with those European twats. Let's let our oiled hooters fly free in the winds of opportunity. Let's be that country that other nations wet their silk panties in fear of. Let's set our corporations loose to make China heel like a little white dog so scared it pees on its own pretty rug. Let's turn back the tide of moochers to go cook up whatever they want far away—not here, not on our soil, on someone else's. And why are we so afraid they would hate us? We are America, you say.
You raise your right hand or your fist and watch the fights start, not afraid of all this power or a system in which money just talks—green stuff with a low voice, so sexy it hurts—because you know none of that matters when you're free, when you're an American and you're singing the "Star-Spangled Banner" and chanting "U.S.A." with a million others in a stadium somewhere.
You have no idea what's next, but you're here and so is he, finally, with his hair in that weird swooping point and his mouth rounded in a take-it-in-the-ass-Washington "O" and he's pumping that obscene hip thrust. Finally, you feel right—and you feel free.