On Being Played

We are being played. The citizens. The Congress. The press. The whole world. All that individual who resides in the White House has to do is call a press conference which is really just the next episode in a reality TV show. Or hold a rally which is really just a meeting with a hand-picked audience instructed to stand behind him and simulate energy and excitement. Or make an unannounced appearance on the White House lawn to decry the fact that he can’t appoint his daughter to a high post due to nepotism.

Holding court makes him feel powerful and popular. Encourages him to make another faux pa which he considers a profound declaration from a stable genius.  Why feed his narcissism and negative tendencies?  I have a solution. Or maybe it’s just a way to take back our own sanity.

What if the press banded together and sent only one representative and one camera to the so-called press room. What if when he walked out onto the west lawn of the White House he’d find one reporter and one camera. No more shouting of questions and answers.  One reporter can spread the story to all outlets. We’d still get the news.

Take when his top adviser on prison reform came to lunch in the oval office wearing a MAGA hat, spouting his own mental health history, spewing his unusual opinions on racism and his outright, unabashed love for the host. I was aghast at the number of reporters and other observers busily snapping their cameras and taking copious notes.

What if there had been one reporter and one camera there. Imagine what could be done if all the manpower now expended in covering his fake news were put into reporting in depth the issues behind that hyperbole. Maybe educating the populace on basic civics which is no longer taught in school. How many were reporting on the hurricane or the possible kidnapping and murder of a journalist that day?

Should this happen it would be a challenge for the White House interloper; he’d turn this around to someone else’s fault, probably the press or those mob democrats. My hope is that it might erode his oh so fragile confidence. He’d be frustrated that he’s no longer getting so much of the spotlight. He’d equate it to poor ratings and have deja vu dreams recalling the collapse of the Apprentice. Perhaps, like bullies at the playground who don’t get their way, he’d pack up his toys and go home. I can only dream.

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