September 11, 2018

Trump Diehards Always Say You Can’t Know His Thoughts. We Disagree. Here They Are.

This 9/11, we imagined what went on in the president’s head so you don’t have to.

President Donald Trump and first lady Melania Trump arrive at John Murtha Johnstown-Cambria County Airport in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, on September 11, 2018. Evan Vucci/AP

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It was 7 a.m., and a pang of hunger in his belly woke the president. But was it hunger, or was it fire? The president couldn’t be sure. No matter. What was more important was that Fox News, and its sister channel the Fox Business Network, would help him find his bearings.

He liked what he heard. He liked what he saw. The conservative pundits understood him. They were real, and they, too, were mad. They were mad at the very same things that enraged him, that haunted him—the undeniable frustrating realities whose importance the liberal media refused to acknowledge. 

It was 7:08 and time for him to get down to the serious work of being POTUS.

He admired his tweet as it collected likes and retweets. Hillary and Obama couldn’t get those retweets. He stared at the tweet, enjoying every tick of the counters, every pixel of the screen. 

It was September 11, 2018. Seventeen years since that awful day. He remembered it well. People said he didn’t remember it well, but people are stupid. Such a sad day. If only the Twin Towers had had asbestos. 

He wanted to watch the stats on the tweet climb, but he had more important things to do. He went back to watching Fox News.

They were talking about the FBI and the media.

Resentment gurgled up in him, accompanied by its reliable companions: alienation, anger, and rage. These feelings were as familiar as a limb and as much a part of him. He’d felt them all his life. He remembered the first time his toes tingled, the first time his hands twitched. He remembered the first time he knew in his bones that he was alone. 

This morning he was a thousand miles from Trump Tower and Mar-a-Lago, but with the familiar fury as his companion, the White House almost felt like home. 

From his earliest days in New York, the story had always been the same. They don’t think I can do it. But now it was worse. Since the moment that he descended the escalator in 2015 and announced his run for president, the narrative had switched. They think they can stop me.

The fools. 

As the most powerful man on the planet, he wasn’t alone anymore. He had shown the doubters! He had shown the critics! And he had earned the love of millions in the process. The millions who voted him into office. The millions who were watching the same news network he was watching that morning. He had an army. He had an actual army, but he also had an “army.” It wasn’t me against the world anymore.

The only people who didn’t get it were Democrats and their boosters in the media. Or they probably were just pretending not to get his power and his popularity. He knew that in their hearts they saw it all, but just pretended not to. And they have a very specific reason for this pretense: They are determined to deny him his successes, his greatness. Mueller, Russia, Access Hollywood, Stormy Daniels, it was all just a way for them to avoid confronting their own sad loss in 2016. He won the Electoral College, which is almost impossible for a Republican to do. Look at the map, clowns! 

The Democrats never look at the map. When the twin morons Schumer and Pelosi would visit the Oval Office, he’d show them the map, and they would look but not see what they were looking at. They didn’t get what it meant. He was the president! He won! They lost. You snooze you lose. Take a snooze, Democrats! But they wouldn’t. They fought him every inch of the way.

At least they did it to his face. Not like the backstabbing Resistance wannabe in his administration writing that insane, loser op-ed. Undermining him at every turn. Sessions! What a weakling! Lou Dobbs was going on about the attorney general’s cowardice and the president couldn’t help but nod vigorously. 

You know who did have his back? Rudy. Rudy Guiliani. America’s Mayor. Remember what he did on 9/11. What an awful day. September 11. He remembered it well. People said he didn’t remember it well, but people are stupid. He remembered it perfectly. He remembered how he tried to make lemons out of lemonade by announcing that he now had the tallest building in Lower Manhattan. He remembered how they disparaged him. Such a sad day.

Despite all his hard work that morning, the president was up, dressed, and ready to kick ass and take names. He had something important to do. (Probably some boring briefing with boring old John Kelly.) He followed the aides as they led him toward the South Lawn and onto Marine One. Marine One was okay! It was a nice helicopter, but it wasn’t a nice nice helicopter. It was fine for little trips like this, to wherever he was going.

The helicopter began its ascent and he looked at his phone. He saw an aide had sent a tweet from his account.

It was a pretty good photo. He liked the photos more lately than he had when his presidency began. He wondered where they were going. He read the text of the tweet. Oh, right: 9/11. What a sad day. He remembered it well. People said he didn’t remember it well, but people are stupid. He was not stupid.

He looked out the window down onto the White House lawn. The crowd was cheering, waving. These were his people. He wasn’t alone, and he’d never be alone again. He leaned back in his chair and grinned. 

When the chopper finally landed, the president was sure: It wasn’t hunger that he felt. It was fire.

 

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WE'LL BE BLUNT

It is astonishingly hard keeping a newsroom afloat these days, and we need to raise $253,000 in online donations quickly, by October 7.

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Readers also told us to just give it to you straight when we need to ask for your support, and seeing how matter-of-factly explaining our inner workings, our challenges and finances, can bring more of you in has been a real silver lining. So our online membership lead, Brian, lays it all out for you in his personal, insider account (that literally puts his skin in the game!) of how urgent things are right now.

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Getting just 10 percent of the people who care enough about our work to be reading this blurb to part with a few bucks would be utterly transformative for us, and that's very much what we need to keep charging hard in this financially uncertain, high-stakes year.

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