By Tom Brennan
They always return to the scene of the crime.
Donald Trump was back in New Hampshire this weekend, displaying his increasing affinity for Hitlerian rhetoric. He referred to some of his fellow Americans as “vermin,” which needed to be rooted out. Europe in the 1930s had occasion to be familiar with this kind of language. If the USA in the 2020s has grown bored with these antics from the Orange Menace, one Granite Stater has reason to be downright indignant. This would be Mr. Vermin Supreme.
Addressing an audience in Claremont, Mr. Trump reiterated his view of the greatest threat the country faced. Not Hamas. Not the KGB thug in Moscow, pining for the Cold War, returning to the tactics of Stalin. Not Iran, which might find a place in their government for our theocracy loving and election denying new House Speaker. Not China or North Korea. No, the greatest threat — to us mind you — according to Mr. Trump, is the “Communists Marxists, fascists, and radical left thugs” who insist he follow the same laws as the rest of us. This would be the obscure prosecutors, grand jurors, judges and law enforcement professionals who have treated him very gently so far. Anyone else facing the charges he faces would not be out on bail.
Our hero, Vermin Supreme, had Trump in his grasp just a few weeks ago. It was the time of year when presidential candidates, both famous and obscure, make the pilgrimage to the office of the NH Secretary of State in Concord and file to run in the primary. Trump delegated this task to Mike Pence last time. We understand why he was not available this time. These filings are pretty vanilla affairs, but this promised to be more interesting.
Hecklers and supporters gathered in small groups, a safe distance from him, and each other. Trump and his party pulled up close to the back entrance to the Capitol, in a fleet of SUVs. But Trump delayed emerging from his car. Suddenly a voice carried by megaphone filled the air. “Come on out Mr. Trump, we’ve got you surrounded. No point in trying run away.” Mr. Supreme went on in this vein for a while. It was hilarious, and we could all use a laugh.
Perhaps if other law enforcement had lent a hand, the Traitor in Chief would have been apprehended. He might even have been relieved to be arrested. I can imagine him saying, as Vermin Supreme clapped on the handcuffs, “what took you so long?” He would not have been the only one asking that question.
As it was, Trump emerged from his vehicle scowling, his surprisingly yellow (almost canary colored) hair blowing in the breeze. He greeted a small cluster of cult members, the only people allowed near him, then struggled with leaden feet up the few steps to the door he passed through. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear his age was catching up with him.
As we all waited for Trump to reappear, people craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the more prominent members of his party. Was that Corey Lewandowski? Shouldn’t he be in South Dakota with his second family? Was that Ivanka, or was it Karoline Leavitt? One fellow who wasn’t furtive was the intrepid Al Baldasaro, the ex state Rep from Londonderry, an original MAGA foot soldier, probably best known for saying Hillary Clinton should face a firing squad. He came to the curb to chat with hecklers, one of whom questioned whether he had the courage to so. Al was gracious and affable, not taking the bait. His reputation preceded him. I was prepared to dislike him, but found that difficult. The people confronting him were venomous, not very gracious, and not very imaginative.
Which brings us back to Vermin Supreme. His style recalls a day when political protest could be entertaining, mischievous, and in its own way, enlightening. Vermin is perennial candidate for office. The boot he wears on his head is as familiar to Granite Staters as Al Smith’s brown derby once was on the sidewalks of New York. For one brief shining moment Vermin’s hilarious and incisive antics recalled a time when all of this was more fun. “Never reach for the musket” said the late Karl Hess, Goldwater speechwriter turned self identified anarchist, “when all you need is a custard pie.”
In due course, Trump emerged from the building. He looked tired. He scowled and nodded, doing his best imitation of Homer Simpson imitating Mussolini. He raised a clenched fist wearily in the direction of nobody in particular. He then made his way heavily down the few steps he labored to climb and was gone.
I was crestfallen as the circus left town. If we can’t make America great again, we should at least be able to make American politics fun again. Then it occurred to me that, if Hunter Thompson could run for sheriff in Aspen Colorado, why couldn’t Vermin Supreme, whose name Trump has just taken in vain, run for sheriff of Merrimack County New Hampshire?