I am not, nor have I ever been, a racist, but I find the current West Wing resident has steered me toward becoming an E-Rasist.
Like the ancient Egyptians, I desire to erase Pharaoh Trump's name from the public record; to chisel out his pathetically oversized name from all monuments, and nullify all of his edicts.
I want history to skip over President #45, leaving a blank space for future generations to wonder about.
When they ask why #45 is missing from the roll call of Presidents, they will have ironically answered their own question. #45 was always missing.
He played at the Presidency and used our country as his own personal Dynasty.
God! He loved to sit in a truck seat and blare the horn or in a fire truck and rev up the siren.
Dressing up as a pretend soldier or throwing paper towel rolls to Hurricane survivors endears him to his clan subjects. But the Pharaoh has no clothes.
The only real effort he ever displayed was swinging a golf club or bragging to reporters about how everyone loves all his imaginary accomplishments.
His Dynasty was a drawn-out series of illegalities: lying, blaming, and distracting to hide it all.
Pharaoh T’s deeds must always be remembered, but erasing his name from our history books and referring to him as #45 would be a Pharaoh's Rah Rah justice.
Crying from his sarcophagus, his tortured ego will forever be appealing his final judgment. The Supreme Court on high will never overturn it.
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