The Dawn of Donald

A few weeks ago I watched a clip of Donald Trump’s verbal assault on Hillary Clinton’s scandalous bathroom break; as I sat on the toilet (thanks to my Leaky Gut Syndrome I typically have taken five to six shits before noon).

This isn’t the first time Don has made comments about periods, poop, and breast feeding; in fact he seems quite taken with women’s natural bodily functions. I always wonder if men like Donald Trump poop, fart, burp, and sneeze. Maybe his shit really doesn’t smell and it’s his godlike existence that gives him the authority to cast aspersions upon the female gender and anyone else that is not a white privileged male. To be really honest, I just wonder if this guy has ever looked in the mirror. With his striking similarity to such notable characters as Donald Duck (think: orange limbs and a suspicious tuft of hair), I have to wonder, where does this guy get off?

As the debate has raged on about whether or not Don is viable GOP candidate I’ve heard numerous news anchors, political pundits, friends, and family tell me: “but he has brought up so many issues that needed to be talked about!” How we did we get here? How did we get to the place in our culture where denigrating women’s bodies are what we consider, provocative intellectual thought? How did we get to the place where childish bullying tactics, like “you’re ugly, fat and disgusting” become what we consider valuable dialogue for our nation’s toughest issues? If Donald Trump were in my nephews 4th grade class we’d be calling him a bully and send his ass to detention.

From verbally assaulting women for breast feeding, to the tired old tripe of accusing a woman of begin on her period when she is assertive and categorically intelligent—Don has effectively  promoted  misogyny like it was hip new slang. And I worry for the message he sends to young men and women—his message of hating anything, or anyone he deems visually unworthy. I worry for the young women out there who consume media messages, and now the vitriol of a politician that espouses superficiality as something to aspire too.

So how did we get here? How did we become a culture that finds offense at the beauty and strength of a real woman’s body—complete with dimples and stretch marks—the battle scars of a body that has overcome, or has given life to another human being?  Maybe we have been asleep too long with the TV on, or busy at the gym, or with the latest diet fad—but now, as things teeter on the brink of insanity—how do keep from losing our damn minds?

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