Donald Trump as president had the ability to charm his way out of an inexcusable social faux pas that endeared to his base and enraged the rest, and his talking to children about Christmas was no different. What he said carried no political consequence: no war could be won or started; no abortion happened; no tax policy would be advanced. Nothing that he did mattered but what it did portend was incomparable. You’re forever expecting the worst but you only ever hear a whisper, an echo off a cave wall, of what might have been. But that melody was enough to drive you mad.
It was like watching Harambe not get shot and instead shake hands with the kid — but then the scene keeps going and they have imaginary tea with the then-alive Queen of England. You’re confused because what experience tells you *must* happen, doesn’t, and what does occur isn’t anything you could’ve imagined and so you’re left muttering like George W. Bush, “That was some weird shit.”
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