But I got up from a sick bed, less than a week after being operated upon for a perforated appendix that came close to killing me. A grumpy French surgeon, a speedy (and vastly cheaper operation than I could have had at home) have kept me alive and now well enough to crawl to my keyboard to share the opinion that Donald (“the Dotard,” the Dullard, the Graceless, the Corpulent, the Revolting, the Pussy Grabber, the Thief, the Prevaricator) Trump may be the most appropriate symbol for my country in these times remotely imaginable.
The revulsion I have for this man isn’t likely to be news to anyone who has consulted this blogsite over the past few years. In fact, I’ve repeated myself endlessly on the subject in an ongoing fit of sputtering consternation. But I don’t recall writing about how much Trump seems like the spitting image image of what our country has become.