![]() ![]() Much as he dotes on adulation, he is equally happy to be loathed, and he regales Woodward with video clips of his opponents glaring at him during his State of the Union address last winter: “See the hate!” he says, weirdly elated. ![]() Like every statement he makes, it was a boast. “I bring rage out,” Trump tells Woodward in one of their early encounters. Unleashed by his executive power, he snarls, incoherently froths and, in scenes witnessed by Woodward’s sources, runs around yelping “Holy shit!” or “I’m fucked!” A better title for Rage, perhaps, would be Rabid. ![]() ![]() Yet when closeted with his harried aides or beleaguered cabinet members, Trump mutates into the carnivorous hound of the Baskervilles. “Honey, I’m talking to Bob Woodward!” he proudly announces when Melania interrupts one of their phone calls, and he even imparts whispered nuclear secrets in the hope that this upright, fanatically factual journalist – who began his career by exposing the Watergate burglary and thus scuttled Nixon’s presidency – will relax into an obsequious court reporter. That’s OK.” It’s the creed of a grovelling lap dog, and Trump follows up with flattering licks and whiny appeals to have his belly scratched. “I love this guy,” says Trump when granting access to Bob Woodward. There’s no need: he is his own fawning poodle and envenomed cur. Now I understand why Trump refuses to have a dog in the White House. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |