Looks Like Freedom But it Feels Like Death

It's something in between, I guess.

It's closing time.

And finally 2:00 AM comes, as it always does.

Behind the bar, Micky has flipped the light once already and there you are, full of the Jägerbombs you've been pounding all night. once again stranded somewhere between Grandiose and Bellicose with no place to park your junk for the night.  So it's time to either stagger over to Tammy's 4 AM and try your luck among the gang bangers, water-heads and other pre-dawn human rounding errors that wash up there between two and four, or finally pick one of the lovelies who have been flashing you their wares since midnight,

Sure. one of them is a dead ringer for Edna Krabbappel, and the other one may be a dude, but what the Hell, it's late.  So very late.  Almost too late. And only a loser walks out of a place like this in the dead of night alone.  And there is just enough booze thundering in your ears to convince you that maybe this time you won't wake up in a puddle of your own sick with both your wallet and the last remnants of your dignity gone.

And that, boys and girls, is not the opening of a second-rate Raymond Carver story contest entry. No, it is the psych profile of the average Trump voter as translated from the original douchbag by professional tin pusher, beer-goggle Colin Farrell and Trump supporter, Ernie Boch, Jr. 

Transcript courtesy of Mediaite:

Boch: It’s 2:00 in the morning and there’s a few girls at the bar, you have to go home with one of ’em. So you have to pick who you’re with, and I think Mr. Trump is the best qualified.

Cuomo: Hold on a second. Ernie. Your analogy for what makes you the right guy when you get the bad call at 2:00 in the morning is what to do in the bar when you have two women there and you have to decide which one? This is how your head works?

Boch: No. You’re misunderstanding. If you’re single, you understand this. It’s the end of the night, you want to go home with somebody. The bar’s about to close. You have to pick somebody. You have to pick somebody. you have to stand behind somebody. If you line up all of the candidates with their positives and negatives, I think Mr. Trump is the man.

Which, as creepy as it may sound, it is also a dead-on accurate thumbnail of the mind of the Republican base voter.  In the past I have described the Republican base as a junkie crawling through a dumpster desperate to recapture their first, Perfect Reagan High.

Listen to any aging wingnut sighing and jerking sadly off to a tattered photo of Saint Ronnie -- despite the fact that the catastrophes we are now reaping were sown by his ruinous ideology -- and you can hear every addict who ever lived pining for that first Perfect High. The one they spend the rest of their days chasing, regardless of the size of the debts they run up or the ruined lives they leave in their wake.

And that the whole appeal of the GOP to it's loyal rank-and-file was that they...

...could go on bareback fucking diseased monsters in the alley all night long, every night, forever and wake up each morning miraculously clean, virginal and still beloved in the eyes of God.

So what a delightful surprise that a Trump true believer would lock on to the image of a d-bag trolling for strange at bar as the perfect metaphor for Donald Trump.

And right now is the wild time.  The anything-goes time.  When...

all the women tear their blouses off

and the men they dance on the polka-dots

and it's partner found, it's partner lost...

When everyone is red-faced, roaring like lions and straining like mad to pretend that there won't be hell to pay when the fiddler stops.