I see you guys found out about the Vivek Ramaswamy ad already; I finally caught up with the comments in the previous post. Of it, I have little to say other than are you fucking kidding me? But I think Roy said it best:

I’ve always known the guy was a piece of shit but he’s broken through to sub-shit.

Every time you think these guys can’t go any lower, someone in the group yells, CHALLENGE ACCEPTED.

I can only hope this is Ramaswamy’s final exploding cigar, especially at a time when the Epstein story is still top of mind, in a state where Epstein operated, in a party where millions still think sex trafficking is a huge, tip-of-iceberg story. (It is, but I believe it’s misunderstood by most people who worry about it. The Acton case — molested by a stepfather or other close relative — is where much of it starts. That Acton was able to escape that environment and make it through med school, etc., is nothing short of a miracle.)

I read that Ramaswamy’s team thought the ad “tested well with persuadables,” which is the sort of phrase you hear at this time of year. Imagine being called into a conference room to watch that thing. (I’d link, but this late in the news cycle, it only exists in fragments in posts and reposts, and I don’t have the time for the long search required to find a pristine copy.) After the first few hours, when the ad’s provenance was still murky, Ramaswamy himself took credit (if that’s the word) for it, and blah-blah’d about how it Raises Important Issues, etc.

These people, these Republicans, have been living in the monkey house so long they’ve lost their sense of smell, along with their shame. Let’s hope — hope! — the rest of the country can finally smell the stench coming off them.

A couple days ago I batted out a few hundred words about Trump, and I wasn’t going to post them here because I’ve already said a lot of it here. So I dumped it on Facebook, and it got a response, so I’ll re-dump it here. It won’t surprise anyone, but as someone who thinks of things by writing about them, I kind of surprised myself. So here goes, and happy Wednesday:

Talk to a therapist, or a priest, or rabbi, or any other counselor, religious or secular, that you might encounter, and they will likely tell you to be very careful with the word “hate.”

It’s serious business. Hatred is like taking rat poison and waiting for the rat to die. It should only be reserved for the most serious occasions, or, paradoxically, trivial ones. Which is to say, it’s OK to say you hate Brussels sprouts, or the new Kid Rock album, but you should never use it on people. Hate is the wellspring of evil. Hate leads to ethnic cleansing, scorching violence and other terrible things. We are all children of God, after all.

I say all this to make it clear that I have given it some thought, but I cannot deny the conclusion it’s led to.

I hate Donald Trump.

Seriously. I hate everything about him. I hate his blithe stupidity, his greed and corruption, his racism, his taste in music, and certainly his taste in architecture. I hate what he’s done to the White House, our house, not his. I hate his contempt for the rule of law, and everything I once believed was good about this country – our open-heartedness, our energy, the way we welcome newcomers with a sonnet that specifically asks for the tired, the poor, the tempest-tost, and how many of them become millionaires, or at least comfortable Americans, in a generation or two. I hate that he gave a Kennedy Center Honor, once reserved to crown great American artists at the pinnacle of their careers, to Gloria Gaynor, who had two disco hits, and Sylvester Stallone, who acts primarily by curling his lips.

And these are minor issues, relatively speaking. The alienation of our allies, the diminishment of the country’s standing in the world, the Iran war, ICE, and no doubt more horrors yet to be revealed? I can’t even.

“Game of Thrones” fans may remember how young, exiled Arya Stark would lull herself to sleep by running down a list of her enemies, people she wanted to kill. I sometimes do the same, although being non-violent, I only want them to die, painfully and soon. I consider them the men responsible for inflicting Donald Trump on our once-great nation: Rupert Murdoch, Mark Burnett, Jeff Zucker, Roger Ailes (already dead, granted), Roger Stone, et al.

And speaking of death, it’s what I absolutely wish on Trump. I hasten to add that I don’t want him assassinated, mainly because that would get his ugly face on Mount Rushmore. But I do want him to die, before I do, and I want the three Ps – painful, public and protracted. I would settle for one of those, and I want the death inflicted by God. I don’t really believe in God anymore, at least not a God that blesses America, because look what He sent us with Trump, but I want God, or cosmic justice, to kill him. If Trump suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed at one of his rallies, I would leap to my feet and clap like a child at a birthday party. If he contracted flesh-eating bacteria, I’d be over the moon. I might even go back to church.

I would certainly start celebrating. I might wander the neighborhood with a bottle of champagne, pouring glasses for passers-by. In this, I am not alone. There’s an internet meme among people who feel the same way, a phrase: When it happens. Everyone knows what it means. I saw one spiritual sister of mine who actually had a bottle of bubbly engraved with that very phrase. A lawyer I know, a real-estate agent, probably many people I know, have laid a few bottles aside in cool basements, fearing shortages when it happens.

Because you know, I know, everybody knows that when it does happen? There will be celebration in the land. If he dies in office, of course JD Vance will declare a national day of mourning, but friends, no matter when it happens, it’s gonna be a party, for three days, five, or however long it takes to plant his carcass in the ground. We’re all gonna call in sick. Bars will do a land-office business, and servers will take home fat rolls of tip cash. We’re gonna replay clips of Ivanka shedding a few rehearsed and photo-tested tears – and Melania shedding none at all – and laugh.

I know this confession may lead some to brand me a sick person, poisoned by hatred, but I don’t care. One of the things I most despise about this despicable man is what he’s done to me. I read earnest essays about our divided nation, whether we can ever clasp hands across the bloody chasm, and my heart can’t even summon a tiny flame of empathy. In Detroit, two men, both opinion journalists, have a road show called The Civility Project, designed to help us, as the phrase goes, agree to disagree, but with respect for one another.

Sorry gents, but that ship has sailed. I want a truth and reconciliation commission, maybe with a guillotine standing by for speedy executions of the worst offenders. Later, Bobby Kennedy! Arrivederci, Pete Hegseth! A double whiskey before you slip your neck into the notch? Sure. Unlike you, we’re decent people.

We’ll bury you next to Big Daddy, maybe on one of his golf courses, where he planted his first ex-wife.The graves will need to be public, of course, so the people who suffered under Trump will have their opportunity to pay respects. My advice to anyone who might visit: Wear rubber boots.