Tuesday’s White House press briefing was one of the most disturbing moments of Donald Trump’s slide into madness and desperation. As I write this, hours later, I keep thinking, “What in the actual fuck was that?”
Like an addled necromancer with the heavy charnel stench of a dead campaign on him, Trump spent more than an hour chanting the old incantations from an eldritch grimoire (The Dark Booke of Bannon, perhaps) only to find that nothing was working. Even his most devoted followers were eyeing the exits and wondering when some apprentice would step forward to lead him off gently off the stage for a rest and a posset of unicorn blood.
Trump was plainly mentally and physically exhausted, grimly plodding through a badly written set of weak-sauce talking points that wasn’t the product of a research team, but stuff scrawled with a Sharpie and pulled from his ass.