Donald Trump’s long flirtation with a failed campaign for the nation’s highest office has come to its foregone conclusion. At least, that is what everyone is calling it now.
Had you been asleep for the past several weeks, this news would not be a surprise. Donald Trump’s not running for president, the bird’s in the tree, God’s in His heaven — or not, if you’re Stephen Hawking — and all is, generally, right with the world.
Now it’s over. Now we can call this what it always was: a joke candidacy, a publicity stunt.
But I’m a little disappointed.
The problem with joke candidacies and publicity stunts is that they always reveal some truth about the overall race. Jimmy McMillan showed us the rent was too damn high. Ralph Nader showed — well, something. Trump’s departure has left a definite emptiness. “Who will get all that Trump coverage now?” everyone is asking. I’ll tell you who: no one.
The reason people covered Trump so much was because he had an “it” factor (sure, a Stephen King “it” factor, mainly concentrated in his hair, but an “it” factor nonetheless) that no one else has shown. Yes, others have flashes of “it” from time to time. But if people found Jon Huntsman or even Michele Bachmann as uniformly, oddly compelling as Trump, they’d be covering them already.
The Trump flirtation was the national equivalent of that drunken conversation with an alluring stranger that makes us rethink our marriages. Of course we weren’t actually going to do anything! Look at the guy! His hair looks like an [insert joke about roadkill, mops or ham loafs]. But he showed us what we were missing. “I want someone with an ounce of charisma,” we murmur, driving home. “Donald only has an ounce, and look what he’s been able to achieve with it!”
Now we’re going home to the GOP 2012 field as it actually is, that well-meaning, bumbling white-collar guy who is waiting for us in the kitchen with some unpalatable-looking budget solutions that he’s been cooking for the past three hours. We take one look at it and decide to order in — does Paul Ryan deliver?
Then we sit in front of the TV for a while. “Let’s watch C-SPAN,” he murmurs, stroking our hand in what he clearly assumes is a sensual manner but which has the effect of reminding us of the reanimated corpse of Warren G. Harding.
“Can we not?” you say. “It’s just, I’ve had a long day, what with the recession and all, and I have a huge headache coming on.”
“How about I discuss social issues?” he suggests. “You love to discuss social issues!”
“Somehow,” you mutter, “my heart’s just not in it anymore.”
We did not need Trump to make us realize this, of course. But now that he’s come and gone, his departure leaves a void we are not quite certain how to fill.
Eventually we’ll buckle down. We are committed to making this work, after all, for the children. So we’ll find things to enthuse about.
We know we dodged a bullet. When we wake up the next morning beside our dedicated and loving GOP 2012 field as it actually is, we remember that ham loaf on the top of the stranger’s head that seemed to be winking at us and we shudder a little. But there’s still an empty feeling at the pit of our stomachs. Where’s the pizazz?
Maybe this is a sad statement about our culture and our capacity for distinguishing what is important from what is impressive. But that doesn’t make it any less true. Trump was the ice cream we didn’t know we were allowed to have for breakfast. Now we’re back to cereal, and it’s worse than before.
Excerpted from Alexandra Petri’s humor blog at washingtonpost.com/blogs/compost.