Visceral reactions to the evil Trump "in your face" offensive right wing propaganda

New York Daily News opinion echo by Jennifer Anne Moses.

Driven absolutely mad: I’m at my wit’s end over Donald Trump and his right wing supporters! (Maine Writer is a #propagandaresister!) How can we end the ugly Trump propaganda?

I know it’s not about me, okay? But since I’m the only person I live with 24/7, whose thoughts I can hear even when nothing is said, and whose blood pressure I feel rising or falling depending on the stimulus, it is about me. And I’m falling apart, about to burst at the seams with a combination of rage and despair. 

Here’s what gets me: everything. Every bloody, freaking, flipping thing. We could make a new game out of it. 

• Which is more appalling: Fox News or Breitbart? 

• Who would you like to see behind bars most: Junior or Stephen Miller — only forget about that one, there are too many candidates in this particular collection of inept and unethical sycophants. 

• Which Trump lie got your guts more in a twist, his claim that wind turbine noise causes cancer, or his suggestion that drinking disinfectant might help combat COVID-19? 
• Or, or, or — an infinity of choices.

My brother sums it up this way: “No matter what the situation, we can always count on Trump to do the most messed up thing ever.” Only he didn’t say messed up. God willing, the spineless coward will scurry back to one of his gilt-covered mansions and stay there soon, but in the meantime, a girl can’t live on hope alone, and every time I see a Trump bumper sticker or giant scary black flag, I start wondering if I’m going to have to sell my house in New Jersey and move to Israel, where I have family, and where their own right-wing strongman is at least smart enough to have shut down the country before the novel coronavirus mowed down its population.

A very large black and red flag flying about two miles down the road from me has caused me to lose my ability to sleep. It says: “TRUMP 2020, NO MORE BULLS--T.” (I quote, but on the flag, the word is spelled out.) The bulls--t in question is, presumably, stuff like the Constitution, the rule of law, allies, our standing in the world, clean water, safe schools and science. The point being that it takes every ounce of self-control I have not to hand-write just such a rebuttal and affix it to the flag in the dark of night. Or if not a rebuttal, then graffiti to the tune of: FASCISTS LIVE HERE. Or simply leave a dead animal — a collection of roadkill! — in the driveway.

I wonder how many other otherwise sane post-middle-aged suburban ladies who normally couldn’t imagine setting a car on fire to make a point are having similar unladylike fantasies. I’m told there is a TV show where the female characters indulge in similar flights of vengeful daydreaming, but I haven’t seen it. 

Frankly, I actually suggested to my 91-year-old dad in a jokey-joke way that he might find some reason to personally meet with the president — my dad’s an old Washington hand and could probably come up with something — and, once he’s face to face with him, do something illegal like take a baseball bat to his desk, or at least to his tweeting device. The idea is that at his age, what does Dad have to lose? He would be a national hero. Dad didn’t think my idea was very funny. Come to think of it, my siblings didn’t either.

But black humor is better than no humor at all, and recently, my entire soul has gone dark.

The truth is, I’ve been pissed off pretty much my whole life. No doubt because when I was growing up, compared to me, Charlie Brown of “Peanuts” was one of the cool kids. But that was then, and this is now, and I truly believe that if you’re not enraged, then you’re either living in the lovely land of denial or your values, and possibly your behavior, are vile.

Personally, I like to write hate mail. It’s soothing, therapeutic even. My favorite message is: “Have you no shame?”

Apparently, the answer is no. Not for the coward in his hidey-hole. Not for Bill Barr and his fondness for playing army. Not for the greedy money-grubbing spineless toadies in the Senate. Not for she of the $1,300 handbags and $3,544 designer outfits.

Why are there no emojis for vomiting blood?

Maybe I’m doing little more than virtue-signaling here, but I figure that if someone like me — white, well past youth, financially unstressed, with grown kids and two working cars — is about to blow, what must it be like for young people, people of color, immigrants, the working poor, the struggling working class, single parents, the ill, the disabled, the uninsured and the elderly? It’s going to be a very long, very explosive and potentially ugly summer. May America win.

Moses is author of “The Art of Dumpster Diving” and other books.