5 Rounds In The Octagon With Trump

Know what I’m tired of hearing? That Trump is a “master manipulator.” Stop it. No. He is not. Just as a guy who blinds his opponent with salt in a bar fight is not a “master fighter.” Trump simply fights dirty. Always has. Always will. And, look, this pacifist (or “libtard cuck snowflake” in alt-right/neo-nazi parlance) will readily admit: the dirty fighter will win a few bar fights over the course of his lifetime. As a result? He’ll leave thinking he is unstoppable hot shit. But put that same guy in a UFC cage? Doomed. Because he lacks skill, training, and discipline.

Trump was the guy who won bar fights. His supporters were impressed like drunken onlookers. And the GOP begrudgingly championed him because they didn’t want to feel the wrath of the raging bull.

But Trump is in the UFC cage now. This shit is about to get real. And the United States (against the will of the popular vote majority) has bet its life savings on the flabby bar fighter with a $10 spray tan beating a frothing-at-the-mouth Chuck “The Iceman” Liddell (AKA: any aggressive foreign country) in the octagon.

Ain’t gonna happen, folks.

Trump is very IQ stupid. Borderline illiterate from the looks of it. Yet intellectuals (inexplicably) continue to wonder in think-piece after think-piece, “How on Earth did Trump pull off the upset victory?” Easy: Trump lacks morals. Winning fights is a cakewalk when you have no sense of right and wrong and you always walk away without being disqualified on technicalities.

This whole election has been, metaphorically, an old-timey boxer fighting a drunk bro willing to sucker punch. The Old Establishment vs. The Freewheeling Outsider. And after every cheap shot, the dazed 1800s boxer with the wax mustache cries foul! “Why is this raaaaapscallion not fighting by the fisticuffs rulebook?” And, as that foolish line of questioning occurs, the drunken bro spills out of the ring — laughing all the way — to sucker punch the crowd rooting against him. And the old-timey reporter — getting choked out on the sidelines by the unhinged neanderthal — cries foul: “Why is this miscreant not abiding by the fisticuffs rulebook?!”

Knock it off. Everyone. This pattern of abuse has been on loop for the past year. Day-in and day-out.

Stop cowering in a corner, repeatedly asking the ref why the drunk isn’t fighting by the 30,000 page rule book. He didn’t read it. And he never will. He is not a boxer. He is an embarrassing, angry, shit-talking drunk; a guy who chugged a few too many Miller Chills and lashes out aggressively against the defenseless to feel like a strongman. Trump will continue to punch your kidneys. And — news flash — the ref is not going to stop the fight, under any circumstance.

Resisting Trump is going to be a nightmare, but not impossible. Because the drunken bar fighter is not Bruce fucking Lee.

This man is sloppy. This man is undisciplined. This man doesn’t actually know how to fight.

And, remember, this is going to be a looooooong fight. The con artist is going to make mistakes. Loads of mistakes. And, as a result, he is going to get knocked the fuck out.

Be smart. Ignore his taunts, constant showboating, and low-hanging fruit. And — for the love of fucking God — stop asking the ref about the rulebook.

We should not (and should never) sink to his unethical, amoral, toxic level. But we have to fight. We must resist. The lives of others (American Muslims, LGBTQ, women, minority groups….pretty much anyone who is not white) and our Constitutional Rights hang in the balance.

This is not a drill.

Join organizations. March. Protest. Call your Senators and Congressmen. Repeatedly. Jam the lines. Create actual pressure on your representatives. Attend town halls. The more they think their jobs are at stake and the more they see your frustration face-to-face, the more likely they will resist Trump’s authoritarian bullshit.

Stay focused. Tweeting? Facebooking? Fun way to vent. But the opposite of focus. Learn from the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s. Gather with like-minded individuals and work towards peaceful, achievable, real-world change. Join injusticeboycott.com if you have no clue where to start.

But, above all else, never lose hope in the darkness. Even the worst nightmares come to a merciful end. The sun always comes up. And, when the dawn arrives, the drunken bar-fighter will have a massive hangover, a bruised-ego, and (one can only hope) a lifetime ban from the bar.

Like what you read? Give Christian Lynch a round of applause.

From a quick cheer to a standing ovation, clap to show how much you enjoyed this story.