Why don't the British like Tr***

Current US COVID related deaths: 1,015,357

US COVID deaths as of yesterday: 1,014,902

Someone on Quora asked “Why do some British people not like Donald Trump?”

Nate White, an articulate and witty writer from England wrote the following response:

A few things spring to mind.

Trump lacks certain qualities which the British traditionally esteem. For instance, he has no class, no charm, no coolness, no credibility, no compassion, no wit, no warmth, no wisdom, no subtlety, no sensitivity, no self-awareness, no humility, no honour and no grace – all qualities, funnily enough, with which his predecessor Mr. Obama was generously blessed. So for us, the stark contrast does rather throw Trump’s limitations into embarrassingly sharp relief.

Plus, we like a laugh. And while Trump may be laughable, he has never once said anything wry, witty or even faintly amusing – not once, ever. I don’t say that rhetorically, I mean it quite literally: not once, not ever. And that fact is particularly disturbing to the British sensibility – for us, to lack humour is almost inhuman. But with Trump, it’s a fact. He doesn’t even seem to understand what a joke is – his idea of a joke is a crass comment, an illiterate insult, a casual act of cruelty. Trump is a troll. And like all trolls, he is never funny and he never laughs; he only crows or jeers.

And scarily, he doesn’t just talk in crude, witless insults – he actually thinks in them. His mind is a simple bot-like algorithm of petty prejudices and knee-jerk nastiness. There is never any under-layer of irony, complexity, nuance or depth. It’s all surface.

Some Americans might see this as refreshingly upfront. Well, we don’t. We see it as having no inner world, no soul.

And in Britain we traditionally side with David, not Goliath. All our heroes are plucky underdogs: Robin Hood, Dick Whittington, Oliver Twist. Trump is neither plucky, nor an underdog. He is the exact opposite of that. He’s not even a spoiled rich-boy, or a greedy fat-cat. He’s more a fat white slug. A Jabba the Hutt of privilege.

And worse, he is that most unforgivable of all things to the British: a bully. That is, except when he is among bullies; then he suddenly transforms into a snivelling sidekick instead.

There are unspoken rules to this stuff – the Queensberry rules of basic decency – and he breaks them all. He punches downwards – which a gentleman should, would, could never do – and every blow he aims is below the belt. He particularly likes to kick the vulnerable or voiceless – and he kicks them when they are down.

So the fact that a significant minority – perhaps a third – of Americans look at what he does, listen to what he says, and then think ‘Yeah, he seems like my kind of guy’ is a matter of some confusion and no little distress to British people, given that: • Americans are supposed to be nicer than us, and mostly are. • You don’t need a particularly keen eye for detail to spot a few flaws in the man.

This last point is what especially confuses and dismays British people, and many other people too; his faults seem pretty bloody hard to miss.

After all, it’s impossible to read a single tweet, or hear him speak a sentence or two, without staring deep into the abyss. He turns being artless into an art form; he is a Picasso of pettiness; a Shakespeare of shit. His faults are fractal: even his flaws have flaws, and so on ad infinitum.

God knows there have always been stupid people in the world, and plenty of nasty people too. But rarely has stupidity been so nasty, or nastiness so stupid.

He makes Nixon look trustworthy and George W look smart. In fact, if Frankenstein decided to make a monster assembled entirely from human flaws – he would make a Trump.

And a remorseful Doctor Frankenstein would clutch out big clumpfuls of hair and scream in anguish: ‘My God… what… have… I… created?

If being a twat was a TV show, Trump would be the boxed set.

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Michael headed out on errands Friday morning (4/15) looking for new jeans….new pants….and groceries at ALDI’s while I headed to the studio.

I got the last row up (green) on my design wall for the second chandelier:

and still have lots and lots of leftover blocks….so started the layout on a 3rd one:

I had a wonderfully unexpected long chat with Mary Lee (who shared some hysterical FB videos with me), before firing up XENA to finish off Paula’s quilt…and by dinnertime it was done:

I also went on-line to order a 2 year subscription to HIGHLIGHTS magazine for AJ…did you guys grow up with HIGHLIGHTS? I did and I remember loving it….I think it’s a great gift for kids.

AND, I finally connected with the admin for the dialysis center in Lancaster (a near-by town) and will be going down next week to finally drop off these quilts (the stuff on top is to keep Ethel from lying on them, since they've all been washed):

I am VERY excited about this….she seemed thrilled by the idea of quilts for the patients! So, I wrote to my longarmmer friend who inspired me to do this…and I said ‘’it’s only 9 or so quilts’’ and SHE said ‘’it’s not ‘only 9 or so’, it’s 9 more than they have right now!!’’ Wasn’t that sweet?

We had a chicken sausage stir fry for dinner:

that I haven’t made in forever…mine was served over shredded cabbage (since I'm still not allowed to eat grains...while Michael's was served over spaghetti):

made perfect with a bit of feta to finish it off:

*** As I looked at my naked body in the mirror….I thought to myself…

‘’I’m going to get thrown out of IKEA in a minute’’. ***

*** Getting older is like waking up and thinking you’re hungover….then remembering…NOPE! This is just who I am now. ***