Trump and Truth

What’s the deal with my computer screen?

On every website I visit, no matter where I look, I see these strange pixels. They resemble something I’ve seen before in one of those old-timey horror films. Distorted orange flesh and blonde frail hair that floats in the wind. It hurts my eyes if I look at it too long, but I can’t avoid it, it’s everywhere I look.

Whatever this monstrosity is, it appears to be frozen in a constant state of discomfort and anger. Maybe it’s frustrated with how disgustingly orange it looks? Maybe something sharp stabbed it in the backside? I scan the bold text that rests below the creature. “Donald Trump says he knows a guy who delivers very trustworthy information about foreign diplomacy which is very good, and everyone loves it”.

Donald Trump? Have I heard of him before? I begin searching the most desolate parts of my headspace. There must be something on this guy. La La Land epic fail at the Oscars, Brexit appeal vote defeated, numerous protests around the world on International Women’s Day. There’s even a small space where my BA dissertation goes. Oh, here it is. Donald J Trump fails to reveal tax returns. Donald J Trump falls short on providing a valid reason behind his quick judgement on claiming news organisations churn out “fake news”, but advocates sources of information which cannot be verified. There’s also calls of shutting down the press.

That doesn’t seem right. Maybe this poor creature is yet to grow a mature enough brain to comprehend how basic freedom of press works, because no sane or developed member of us homo-sapiens would suggest something so clearly dumb and obscene. It’s scary. It seems to believe what it’s saying.

The more it spits “Mexicans”, “China” and “Make America great again” the redder he becomes, like a birthday balloon ready to pop. It’s even got a couple hundred minions that chant and wail in unison to the sound of this nonsense. They wear baseball caps atop their big fat heads, sheltering sweaty plains of skin exposed from relentless balding. They’re white. White until the shouting begins. Then they scream at the top of their lungs in a devoted act of becoming as strangely off-colour and monster-like as their leader Donald J Trump.

If my mushy brain hadn’t pumped back into action before seeing any more of this horror-show, I probably would have convinced myself I was visiting an undiscovered alien planet. Full of testosterone-raging idiots who can’t tell right from their left, or north from south. They probably don’t know how to tie their shoes laces, for trumps sake!