"A Pustule of Ego" Plunges into the Dungheap!

The ascendancy of our Presidential Idiot, our petulant, malevolent, Little Baby Man has unleashed a torrent of words. So many words. So many think-pieces. A lot more thought than the man deserves. He doesn't deserve one thought-bubble, one brain-cell, one pixel. He is a nothing, a loser, a void, a nasty, empty-headed cipher, an over-blown ego that has blotted out the sun.

There is a long list of great writers who have tackled the subject of this Little Baby Man over the last few months. Add Rebecca Solnit to the list. Check out "The Loneliness of Donald Trump." I just love to read words from a writer who knows what they are up to. Rebecca knows what she's up to.  The last paragraph is a perfect kick to the guts...

"The man in the white house sits, naked and obscene, a pustule of ego, in the harsh light, a man whose grasp exceeded his understanding, because his understanding was dulled by indulgence. He must know somewhere below the surface he skates on that he has destroyed his image, and like Dorian Gray before him, will be devoured by his own corrosion in due time too. One way or another this will kill him, though he may drag down millions with him. One way or another, he knows he has stepped off a cliff, pronounced himself king of the air, and is in freefall. Another dungheap awaits his landing; the dung is all his; when he plunges into it he will be, at last, a self-made man." - Rebecca Solnit