December 2, 2017
Donald Trump's Secret Admirers
By Dan Truitt

It is indicative of how completely the left has taken over our major public organs and institutions, including the press, the entertainment industry, and Higher Ed, that many are embarrassed to admit to others the secret we carry around in our hearts like a treasure -- we absolutely love Donald Trump.

This is the reason Trump's approval numbers are almost certainly way under-reported: who wants to admit that they love an uncouth, billionaire New York braggart who made his fortune by parlaying a "small" $150 million-dollar loan from dear old dad into a business that literally changed the skyline of the world's greatest city? The answer, apparently is: millions.

This has led to articles and blog posts such as Tiffanie DiNato's "Why I'm so darned afraid to admit I support Donald Trump," subtitled, "I'm a Donald Trump supporter, and I'm coming out of the closet." Or this from the uber-liberal UK Guardian: 'Not even my wife knows': secret Donald Trump voters speak out.'

Both of these were written during the campaign season, but the brutal backlash against Trump and his supporters by the so-called "resistance" has caused Trump supporters to go to even greater lengths to hide their affiliation and affection for our rough, gruff chief executive.

The liberal media makes excuses for the phenomenon of hidden Trump supporters with all kinds of bogus analyses, such as Slate's slanderous 'Polling After Charlottesville Confirms That Trump's Base Is Very Racist," or Nate Silver's obtuse post-mortem on the 2016 election, "Shy' Voters Probably Aren't Why The Polls Missed Trump."

Those of us who have been dismissed for half a century as boobs, philistines, and ignorami read such headlines, shrug, mutter, "There you go again," and move on to the latest sports scores, great recipes, how-to videos, or episode of "In The Woods With Phil." When we do pay attention, we are not only perfectly content to impassively observe the implosion of the left, we relish it. We revel in it. We watch this slow-mo train wreck with great glee.

Here is what many of us feel about Donald Trump that we find often difficult to articulate: He doesn't care what people think about what he says, and we're all in on the joke. Our reaction runs to various iterations of the same theme: It's about damn time.

A prime example, and possibly the funniest thing I've seen in 50 years of observing politics, was the recent dustup following Trump's award to the Navajo Code Talkers at the White House. First, he framed the ceremony under the White House painting of Andrew Jackson, he of the Trail of Tears Fame. You think that was an accident? Perish the thought. I believe he framed this solely to wring the nose of the press, and it worked beautifully.

Then he mentioned Elizabeth Warren, calling her Pochanontas.

Rude? Yes.

Inappropriate? Wildly so.

Funny? Absolutely.

And the self-serious, self-righteous leaders on the Left reacted exactly according to script, calling the name "Pochahontas" a "racial slur." If they had just shut up and said nothing, Trump would have come out of this with egg all over his face. But no, they had to speak up. And far from a racial slur, "Pochahontas" is actually a compliment, because she bravely risked her life to save Captain John Smith, and later converted to Christianity.

"Pochahontas" is far too good a name for a complete phony like Elizabeth Warren. Which is Trump's point: Warren is a phony, and left is outraged that Trump has exposed her as a phony. Warren, as Rush Limbaugh has said, is forever saddled with the stigma that she lied about her ethnic heritage, without a shred of evidence to back her up, in order to gain coveted faculty positions on such elite universities such as Harvard.

Trump does this sort of thing all the time. He says things that politicians are too afraid to say, but that we are all thinking, and he makes us shout for glee. Nothing touches him because he has spent his whole life in mortal combat as he fought to have his buildings constructed on the ultra-prime real estate of Manhattan, and his skin is about five inches thick.

The other day I watched him lumber across the White House lawn, approaching the press, a hulking, scowling snapping turtle of a man. He was coming at the press from stage left, alternately looking away at something in the distance he evidently thought was of greater interest than the ink-stained wretches who snap at his heels like a pack of chihuahuas, then shifting gimlet eyes to his enemies in the Fourth Estate.

Watching Trump, I thought of the contrast between him and the svelte, smooth, athletically trim stride of the previous president, you know, the guy who just spent eight years doubling our national debt, setting the Middle East on fire, handcuffing our businesses with excessive regulations, siccing the IRS on his political opponents, and exacerbating racial tensions which had been relaxing on their own for decades and which culminated in his own election, forever putting the lie to the notion that America is an institutionally racist country.

I watched Trump, who walked like something out of Gorillas in the Mist, and I laughed. I laughed loudly, knowing that he was about to put the kabosh on some snooty, self-important journalist who is just as clueless as to how to handle the man as he was on that day in the summer of 2015 when he announced his run for president.

Man, this guy is fun.

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