Is It About Buttons? No? Then Why Is Steve Harvey Meeting With Trump?

Steve Harvey is to black ambassadorship as a broken fax machine bought at a yard sale in 1998 is to finding the one true King of Westeros. The man is about as well versed in sociopolitical affairs as he is in not looking like a 19th-century puppet made for the sole purpose of performing in shoddy minstrel shows. I would not trust this man in a closed-door meeting with a half-eaten box of Frosted Cheerios much less with our living Instagram-filter Molester-In-Chief. Yet, here we are.

If Steve Harvey received a shiny gold coin for every time he contributed to the fiction that black women were not worthy of marriage without his misogynistic and condescending coaching; he’d put them on every suit he owns. This being said, there isn’t exactly too much of a Scooby Doo mystery here when it comes to figuring out what common ground these two men are able to find with each other. Both men have proven themselves to be exceptionally savvy in taking the parts of their character that, for most people, would warrant committing Seppuku in the middle of a Mattress Firm and turning it into a profitable business. The opinions they seem to share about a “woman’s place” would elicit gasps from even the most regressive brothel owner in Victorian-era London. And, lastly, both appear to accrue gaudy and ostentatiously shiny trinkets as if the knick knacks were a physical manifestation of their dicks.

Neither of these men has the best interests of their followers in mind, and there’s no doubt that they approached this meeting with ulterior motives as one would approach a business proposal. Trump, to appear as if he gives more than a warm can of Canada Dry ginger ale about anything in Black America simply by pandering to someone he believes to hold the hearts and minds of black America. And Steve Harvey, by shifting the narrative of his recent missteps away from incipient senility and casual racism to something he believed would put a bit more polish on that corduroy-creased, bacon-greased forehead of his. Despite both being as transparent as a saran wrap condom, we let the meeting consume our individual feeds if only for the sheer absurdity of seeing an orange man and someone who sees no problem with using lite brites as crowns for his teeth, pose for a photo op. And I have a distinct feeling that absurdity is going to be the running theme for at least the next four years.

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