Today, in Taking Our Grim, Bitter Little Laughs Where We Can Get Them News: Donald Trump raised a powerful philosophical question tonight, forcing us to consider the following query: How the heck is he supposed to catch an anonymous, op-ed-writing resistance member, if he can’t actually say the word “anonymous”? Twice:
Trump was holding one of his regularly scheduled 90-Minute Hate festivities—i.e., one of the periodic campaign rallies where he can get that “the people nearby support and like me” feeling that’s apparently in such low supply in the White House of late—in Montana tonight when his ire turned, naturally, to the unknown author of The New York Times’ high-profile burn book entry against him. Trump’s still calling for the Times to reveal the identity of the author, who wrote extensively about a supposed shadowy cabal of West Wing “adults” trying to keep his worst impulses in check, but the paper is continuing to keep its source anomonoussh. Anomynish. Oh, you know.
Anyway, there wouldn’t usually be anything especially notable or funny about a 72-year-old man slurring a word or two, but, then, the vast majority of 72-year-old men don’t apparently have a group of secret babysitters constantly slapping their hands away from Russian oligarchs. Here’s hoping that a little music can soothe our existential headaches, courtesy of well-known Trump impressionist Anthony Atamanuik and a familiar little melody: