Come on, just finish it
Here's the thing.
I have a vengeful streak in me a mile wide and yards deep. You hurt me or those I care for, and it's a good bet that I will return the favor threefold.
As I care for this country, no one has hurt it more in the past decade than twice-impeached, four-times-indicted, rapist, fraudster, and lunatic Donald John Trump. Justice is not, necessarily, him sitting in prison for the rest of his natural life. For me, justice would be God finally intervening and smiting him, preferably while on one of his rants at his hate rallies.
What Trump is suffering now is but a taste of what he deserves. He sees his world collapsing about him, and his usual bluster simply no longer protects him. The lumbering, slow mechanisms of the state are grinding him down, bit by bit. A judge in New York has already declared his business to be fraudulent; the trial is simply to determine how much in fines he'll have to pay. Special prosecutor Jack Smith got the gag order he wanted, and there will be penalties if he violates it—which he will. For a healthy man this would be stress of incalculable ferocity. Trump is not a healthy man.
His glowers and glares no longer frighten anyone who isn't a member of the House GOP conference. He is, quite frankly, a pathetic figure. And much of the country is just waiting for that glorious day when he is in full-rant, tongue wagging, finger pointing, and he stops. He stands still. He starts to sway. And he falls over, his abused organs finally giving up, never to awaken again.
What a wonderful day that will be, when Providence comes out of her somnolence and attends to a matter to which she should have devoted her attention long ago. I'll be heading to Total Wine & More, have a clerk open the case with the good shit, and buy a $300 bottle of hooch. I will invite over my loved ones, crack the bottle, and drink a toast to this nation's salvation. I will proverbially dance and piss on his grave. I will break my Xitter silence and go nuclear on every MAGAt I find. I will laugh in their faces and mock their grief. And I will feel no guilt over this. I will revel in his demise, as did the Italian partisans when they strung up the one-time Il Duce like a side of Parma ham.
And again, I don't feel at all bad about this. I've never claimed to be a saint. I have my limits, and Trump has crossed them time and again.
May his days be few; may another take his place of leadership. May his children be fatherless and his wife a widow. May his children be wandering beggars; may they be driven from their ruined homes. May a creditor seize all he has; may strangers plunder the fruits of his labor.
Go on, Donnie. Keep eating that garbage because you fear being poisoned. You're poisoning yourself. Your heart and brain are living on borrowed time. It will only get worse from here on out.
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