In the WSJ we see this.
In his Mr. Nauseating video of last weekend, Mr. Trump showed us that he had all the class and cool of a misbegotten 12-year-old boy.
Poor Hansel, he’s fighting the witch and the witch’s media arm and he doesn’t even have Gretel to help him.
Mrs. Clinton has nothing on Mr. Trump when it comes to character. She lies (“Wipe? Like with a cloth?”—cute and charming Mrs. C.) the way basketball stars shoot baskets—constantly, nonstop, because it’s the one thing she is best at and (naturally) it gives her pleasure to hear herself lie—swish!—right onto the evening news. And her specialist talent of all is the verbal kick in the groin of a Secret Service man or state trooper who has the nerve to talk to her as if she were merely human. She is no mere rock star; she is Hillary the Queen. She is so big, and you are so small, she can barely even see you from up there. What are you? A macromolecule?
With this as one of the best descriptions as to why we have Trump.
Mr. Trump’s candidacy is a message from the voters. He is the empty gin bottle they have chosen to toss through the window.
And it’s Valu-rite gin.
That’s what pisses our betters off the most. If only we had enough class to drink Bombay or Tanqueray.
RTWT. If it’s up behind a pay wall, do a search for “Trump and the Emasculated Voter” and it’ll pop up.