(don't) Trump it up

Donald Trump continues to have a face, and to talk out of it, which would be enough to send me spiraling on your average Monday.

But I won't. Not today, lovelies, because today it is Autumn.

And because to Donald Trump --  and to those who wish to rub his cancerous blend of entitlement, racism, sexism and hate all over their mindflesh like the corrosive mayonnaise it is -- I am bequeathing Facebook.

Take it and do with it what you will. From here on out I am logging on only to post new blogs and to like Josh Koehler's daily requests for gun control. Because again, we are plagued by complex issues, but, much like welcoming the alien (do it, say both Yahweh and SBJ), this is not one of them. It's not hilarious, but actually deeply sad, how we are so histrionic about the rights of some people to own guns that we are willing to take chances with the rights of other people to live.

I won't speculate on the skincolors, ages, and socioeconomic state of the former and latter categories, because, again: Autumn, and joy, and those of us willing to interrupt our pumpkin-spice-latte consumption for a hot sec don't actually need to be reminded of how our current economic and political systems are literally killing poor and brown and young and female people all over the world and then directing our attention to what this effing schmuck says about women's faces.

Instead: here's some joy. Well before Trump even thought to co-opt our natural stage for his Parade of Hateful Irrelevancies, Doctors Without Borders was doing what they do all over the Middle East. And what they do, friends, is save the eff out of some babies and their moms and their families. To wit:

You can read all about all the amazing stuff MSF (if you're feeling Frenchy) does right here .

So, kids, here's what we're going to do.

1. Not vote for Trump. (One would think it'd be obvious, like when you get a delicious-smelling candle and there's a warning to not eat the candle, or like those warnings that Compound W is not intended for genital warts, and yet, those labels exist.)

2. Whenever your eyes or ears or a single minute of your glorious and finite life is assaulted by this guys and his hateful bullshit, trot on over to this page right here, plunk down what you'd spend on your average generous belt of liquor, and then check out what your money is doing.

Gradually or suddenly, you'll find this odious character replaced by images like this:

Check out these heroes; I promise Trump will still be odious when you get back.

And this:

Antagonize DT by helping some deaf toddlers!

 Hell, even this:

(I promise this fundamentalist Christian neurosurgeon does not support abortion, you guys)

Look, I'm not saying it's not depressing that I have to tell my three year old that "We don't say mean thins about how people look" and "We don't call names" and then live in fear that actually, what is acknowledged as bad behavior in preschool constitutes a political platform if you're a rich white guy with no experience as a public servant, running for office on a platform of rich whiteness and a rejection of the notion of service itself.

 All I'm saying is, wouldn't it be remarkable and thrilling if Trump's awfulness casts our own low-grade suckage and lack of empathy into relief and pushed us to be, like, deliberately provocative in our willingness to love our neighbors rather than shit all over them on Fox News? What if Donald Trump is actually engaged ed in some sort of subversive reiteration of who we've become, and we are all forced to celebrate whatever acts of grace we can in order to avoid going completely insane a la that guy at the end of Heart of Darkness? Wouldn't that be both hilarious and deeply sad, but also deeply hopeful?

I don't know about you, but I choose to think it would. I'm Molly Blooming it up these days, embracing the Yes I will say Yes instead of The horror! The horror! Call me weak if that's your thing, but it's exactly what I'm capable of this glorious Monday morning.

Next up: when your three year believes he is Donald Trump, and other calamitous failures.