Don't you just feel like you knew a kid like Donald Trump growing up?
And didn't you know a John McCain?
I certainly knew a Hillary Clinton.
The uncanny thing about Trump is he manages to get under your fingernail like a splinter. He snidely undermines the "hero" in John McCain, but that was not as off the cuff and random as it seemed at the time.
There is always that little sliver of truth stabbed into the nail bed. Trump did get at something concerning the political correctness of making anyone who ever wore our nation's uniform into a "hero," and what he was saying is that cheapens the word, "hero," which should contain an element of success, or at the very least, dying for a noble cause.
McCain was a bit of a wild man, a bit of a screw up. From Annapolis to flight school, he was always on the verge of washing out for being too undisciplined. And when he was shot down, on his 23rd mission over Vietnam, it was probably a stupid mistake of flying too low, and even when he ejected, he didn't follow the proper procedure and wound up breaking both arms and a leg.
On other hand, he did fly off and landed on an aircraft carrier 22 times and if you've never tried that, well, don't say anything about it until you've tried it. From friends who've done it, it never grows old and your heart reaches stratospheric rates every time.
Fortitude, daring, courage under fire may not be enough to qualify as hero, but those are not qualities to sniff at, especially if the guy doing the sniffing doesn't have a single one.
Billy Fricks, who wrestled one weight class above me on our high school team, who played linebacker on the football team was a John McCain type. He was bounced out of the big football game against our arch rival because he participated in a prank, trashing of their campus before the big game. He owned up to it and took his punishment like a man. He was more fun than a barrel of orangutans and nobody was more fearless. Maybe you wouldn't vote for him for President, but if you needed someone to walk your sister home through a bad neighborhood after midnight, you knew you could count on Billy.
|All dressed up like a real soldier. His daddy bought him that.|
There was always some Donnie John type who would say Billy was a loser because he lost a big wrestling match or got bounced from the big game, but that guy was never even in the game.
He hadn't suffered through the two a day football practices in the August heat or the three hour meat grinder wrestling team practices, pulling himself up a rope thirty feet to the top of the field house ceiling. He had heel spurs or something, so he couldn't take the field or the mat. He was soft and hid behind skirts. This was before there was a Prince Joffrey of "Game of Thrones," the guy who is all fierce and deadly, as long as he has his mother's thugs behind him, but he caves as soon as a real threat his mother cannot contain confronts him.
Donnie Joffrey was the guy you'd punch in the gut when he said stuff like, "I don't admire the guy who gets taken prisoner," "Or Billy stunk up the place, that match." He didn't have the right. He couldn't carry Billy's shoes, that guy.
We had a heavy weight wrestler with a simian brow named Mack Shuff, who looked fearsome enough to scare the daylights out of a lowland gorilla. We used to get together in the big room at the girls' pot luck Friday nights, guys sprawling over the leather couches and chairs and the girls squeezing in where they could. There was, for some reason, a 12 foot wooden cabin cruiser in that room, belonged to the father who owned the house. Nobody ever tried to sit in the boat.
Donny J would show up and start to say something and Mack would say, "I told you: You do not open your mouth. You just take up space you worthless, spineless turd."
And the amazing thing is, Donny J would just sit there. He wouldn't leave. He'd just sit there, trying to look like he belonged in the company of the guys who had suffered together, like he was one of the band of brothers.
|Never landed on an aircraft carrier|
That's what Donnie John is.
You just know he's going to run away when the boys come out to play. He just doesn't have the guts to be President.
|The nasty inner core of the Donald|
Hillary, of course, was the scold: the ambitious girl who knew she was more disciplined than her rivals and she played by the rules and would be furious if she lost because she had done everything right, so she expected to be rewarded, as promised. But she was humorless. She couldn't see the cracks in the armor. She actually respected the adults who ruled our lives and thought they were mostly righteous, while the some of us laughed at them and thought they were basically idiots. Hillary never knew what Obama hit her with. She had done every thing she was told to do but he beat her with something outside the box.
One thing you can say for her: She's tough to the core. Anyone who watched her take apart those mendacious, smarmy Republicans of the House Oversight Committee during their tag team attempts to bring her down during the Benghazi hearings saw her steel. She's got more guts in her little finger than Donnie John has in his John Thomas.
I can't say I'd be wild for any of these types to be President. Personally, I'd be happy for Barack Obama to stay on, but that would be cruel and unusual punishment for Mr. Obama and his family.
It's come down to the arrogant wimp and the mother superior.
I'm okay with the woman. I'm with her.
But someday, I'd like to read her memoirs, after she finishes her second term, and discover she had a torrid affair with General Petraeus or maybe Al Franken.