Today I witnessed an amazing sight.
Admittedly, I watched it via television, not with my own eyes. But still, it was an amazing sight.
In Washington, D.C., land of Washington and Lincoln and FDR and JFK and the Bush(es) and Obama, a million couple of thousand MAGA people marched on behalf of Donald J. Trump, America’s outgoing president and a man who insists he is being robbed of a second term. They showed up by car, by bus, by train, by plane, wearing all sorts of red, white and blue MAGA hats and MAGA shirts, holding MAGA signs and sporting MAGA buttons. Love them or hate them, there is no denying the passion and loyalty. These people adore Donald Trump. They believe in Donald Trump. They worship Donald Trump.
Donald Trump drove right through them.
I wouldn’t have believed it had I not seen it. The president of the United States, sporting a blue windbreaker and ubiquitous red-and-white MAGA cap, drove right through his own protesters—a passenger in the rear of a black limousine. He offered a small wave, but nothing more, en route to the Trump National Golf Club in Sterling, Virginia for his (this is no exaggeration) three hundred and first round of golf as president. He didn’t stop to chat. He didn’t take to a podium to address the masses. He didn’t join the march to save his own skin.
He.
Just.
Drove.
Thru.
It reminded me of the scene in “Forrest Gump,” when after three years, two months, 14 days and 16 hours, the title character stopped running, took a deep breath, turned and began the walk back home to Alabama. His followers—mindless disciples of the Church of Forrest—stood bewildered, until one finally cried out, “What do we do now?”
I’m not sure when (if ever) the disciples of the Church of Donald cry out, “What do we do now?” You’d have thought that would have happened long ago—after the endless lies; after learning about all the cons; after the decisive election loss (Riddle me this: If the Democrats cheated, why fall short in the senate and drop so many house seats?); after the juvenile meltdowns; after the fruitless and heartless approach to COVID.
But were I a MAGA guy, and were I using my valuable Saturday to march in defense of Donald Trump, I know how I’d feel as he drove past for yet another afternoon at a golf course whose membership I could never afford; at a golf course whose membership requirements I’d never meet.
I’d feel like a fool.
And I’d wonder what to do now.
