So here’s the deal. I will not lie to you, so listen up.
We’ve been lied to, manipulated, taken for a ride, and played like suckers. We’ve been teased with the huge stuffed bear, then had it switched out for the ten cent rubber dinosaur when we played the rigged carnival game.
We’ve been told who to vote for based on the letter after their name, and money has poured in from four-letter committees with 20003 zip codes. We don’t see the money, just the slick advertising showing the “enemy” in monochrome, with television moiré patterns and static overlaid, while a deep voice warns us of the consequences if we fail to vote correctly.
It’s all a country-club scam, where the rich and well-heeled sit at white-tableclothed tables, at black tie events where donors cough up six figures to pick at Chicken Cordon Bleu with garlic smashed red potatoes and braised asparagus because of who they’re sitting with. “DAHling! So good to see you!” with cheek air kisses. (Now where’s the check?)
Donald Trump gets the scam and despises them. He’s our Al Czervik: A boorish party crasher who shows up where he’s not wanted, but what can be done? He owns the building (or at least his name is on it, with an option to buy). Sometimes he doesn’t own anything–he just shows up.
Then, all of a sudden, there was Donald Trump.
“Nobody knew he was coming,” said Abigail Disney, another donor sitting on the dais. “There’s this kind of ruckus at the door, and I don’t know what was going on, and in comes Donald Trump. [He] just gets up on the podium and sits down.”
Trump was not a major donor. He was not a donor, period. He’d never given a dollar to the nursery or the Association to Benefit Children, according to Gretchen Buchenholz, the charity’s executive director then and now.
But now he was sitting in Fisher’s seat, next to Giuliani.
“Frank Gifford turned to me and said, ‘Why is he here?’ ” Buchenholz recalled recently. By then, the ceremony had begun. There was nothing to do.
We need someone not afraid to tell fart jokes, or to embarrass the elites as they play philanthropic games. Most egregious of all those elites is Hillary Rodham Clinton. She doesn’t even care about the money, or being accepted by the right people. She only cares that people do as they’re told. Clinton is the queen of paranoia, trusting maybe three people in the world, and then not at the same time.
Hillary would have been perfect as a British World War II intelligence officer. She can spin lies within lies within complex deceptions, feints, double-deceptions, topped off by an enormous gaslighting operation. If she lived in the early 1900’s she would have made a great Mata Hari, only she would have gotten away with it.
(Trump has the same authoritarian bent, with only half the paranoia. Trump isn’t so much paranoid as expecting the world to screw him, because it always has. It’s not really paranoia if they’re really out to get you, is it?)
What can an Al Czervik do in a world full of Judge Smails?
The only tool Trump has at his disposal is his money. He’s like the Russian billionaire who simply must have the world’s largest yacht to show he’s accepted and respected. Except Trump wants an airline, or a casino, or a golf resort. Just like Al Czervik, perfectly played by Rodney Dangerfield, Trump’s got a permanent chip on his shoulder on which is inscribed “I don’t get no respect.”
We sympathize. As voters, we don’t get no respect either. So we went full-Czervik.
The elites were not amused. The political intelligentsia was horrified. Somebody invited the caddies to the pool party, and there’s a Baby Ruth floating in the pool.
Problem is, that’s not a Baby Ruth. It actually is what it looks like.
And now we’ve got to empty the pool, clean it, sanitize it, and keep the caddies out. Wait, they’re not caddies, either. They’re Czervik’s thugs. “Hey, Moose! Rocco! Help the judge find his checkbook.” It’s funny until they come for you. Then it’s not funny, and never will be funny again.
The first spasms of a movement tend to be reactive, reflexive and organic. “Stick it to the man,” and “throw the bums out” are great mantras, but this isn’t Bushwood Country Club, and we’re not playing golf. We screwed up, but we almost needed to screw up to expose how we’ve been played all these years. As much as I think Jeb Bush would be a saner candidate than Trump right now, back 16 months ago, I’d rather have chewed glass than supported Bush, because he represented everything wrong with the elitist feed-us-shinola and call it soufflé crowd.
Trump was cathartic for the nation. For the GOP voters to finally express their deep antipathy, and for the Democrats to finally complete their journey to the Dark Side of socialism, and post-modern nihilism, we sort of needed a little man’s Al Czervik. We just didn’t need him to be the nominee.
It’s likely that the little man’s Al Czervik will lose today to the elite. Those who pretended to respect him will quietly slink away. Some who think it’s cool to be bad will stick around with him. But we who went along for the painful ride while he stuck it to the power brokers, wearing China-made red Trump ties while he bashed China, and paying his own air service to fly his own 757 out of donated campaign funds–we will still be screwed when the election is over.
You didn’t think the country club would actually change its membership policy, did you? Oh no. Trump will never be accepted. Even should be become president, he’ll be shunned, snickered at, talked down to, and made the butt of jokes. The liberal media and moneyed Davos crowd did it to the Bush family, as close to American royalty as you can get without being named Kennedy, so of course they’ll do it to Trump.
Of course Trump takes it personally because he’s Al Czervik.
If Trump loses, which is the likely outcome, who will be the next little man’s candidate?
There must be one, because we’ve gotten a taste of what it’s like to crash the party and thumb our noses at those Ivy League lawyers who think they run the country. I actually respect some of the Ivy League lawyers, but honestly, it’s going to be tough for someone like Ted Cruz to project the image of the fighter he’s supposed to be.
Maybe Evan McMullin. Or David French (yes, a Harvard lawyer with a professional wife who is his intellectual equal). Or Marco Rubio, who clawed his way through law school and married a cheerleader (a professional NFL cheerleader!).
The movement must continue. The Al Czerviks of America must unite and complete what Trump started, but not with Trumpism. It began as the Tea Party. Then it grew cancerous and metastasized into the “alt-right” and Trump cultists. Now we must excise the cancer, and start over. Maybe with a new party, or maybe with a cleansed Republican Party.
Whatever we do, the sun will rise tomorrow. God will still be on His throne, and we must joyfully go to our work as happy warriors. God bless Donald Trump for being the Al Czervik for us.