Jun 27, 2025

It’s Hard Not to Write About PrumpTutin

I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried.

I sit down to write about anything else—climate collapse, AI, the price of eggs—and there he is again. Not relevant. Not interesting. Just there. Like mold on bread, you just bought. You don’t want to talk about him. You don’t want to give him the attention. But he’s everywhere, and everything else—every crisis, every lie, every collapse—is either shaped by him or happening in the void he left behind.

It’s not because he’s compelling. He’s not. He’s tedious. Predictable. A man with the vocabulary of a drunk tourist and the self-awareness of a houseplant. He’s not strategic. He’s not deep. He’s not even new. He’s just a narcissist with a bullhorn who figured out that America doesn’t read the fine print anymore. He speaks in loops—short, punchy, repetitive—and linguistic studies show his vocabulary ranks below that of most modern presidents, scoring at a grade school reading level.

And yet, he’s everywhere. He gets on everything. Culture, courts, commerce. You want to write about clean energy? Now you’re writing about how he called wind turbines "bird cemeteries." You want to write about trade policy? Now you’re stuck explaining why China does not actually pay tariffs. You want to write about the rule of law? Buckle up—because the man’s entire life is a hit-and-run carried out without accountability.

That’s the black hole of trump. Not because he’s persuasive, but because he’s corrosive. Because ignoring him doesn’t neutralize the damage—it just lets it spread. Silence is not resistance. It’s surrender.

And I get it. People are tired. Hell, I’m tired. We all want to turn the page. But you can’t turn the page when the same man keeps setting the book on fire.

Every conversation in this country must detour around him. He’s the sinkhole in the road, the sewage in the waterline. He’s not a politician. He’s pollution.

And that pollution is deliberate. He doesn’t govern. He dominates. He doesn’t persuade. He performs. Cruelty isn’t a bug—it’s the main attraction. That’s why he’s always pointing at someone weaker. A woman, a refugee, a judge, a journalist. He needs an enemy. Preferably one who can’t hit back. And if you dare to say so out loud, you’re the enemy now too.

He turned the presidency into a grievance machine. Not a seat of power but a megaphone for personal vendettas. And his followers—those loyal 35%—they don’t want policy. They want payback. They don’t want leadership. They want license. They want someone to tell them that their worst instincts aren’t just okay—they’re American.

So no, I can’t stop writing about him. Not because I want to. Because I have to.

Because while decent people were rolling their eyes and telling themselves “It’s just talk,” he was stacking the courts with loyalists, gutting environmental rules, sabotaging public health, and normalizing the idea that elections don’t count unless he wins them.

Because people like to say, “Don’t give him oxygen.” As if he’s a campfire that’ll go out on its own. He’s not. He’s a four-alarm blaze that feeds on silence—and on our unwillingness to hold him accountable.

Because the day we stop writing about him is the day he writes the ending himself.

That’s the choice, isn’t it? Write about him or write around him. Pretend he's not relevant while he dismantles the machinery of democracy and replaces it with a golden throne and a blood-red hat. He’s spent his entire public life breaking rules, breaking laws, and walking away untouched—because this country still hasn’t figured out what to do with power when it refuses to answer for itself.

And now, the people helping him break it are wearing hoodies and flying private. Once upon a time, Big Tech claimed it was saving democracy. Now it's buying stock in the wrecking crew.

It’s been six months, and already we’ve entered a new era of proud ignorance. Science funding is slashed. Universities are under siege. Foreign scholars are staying away. The Secretary of Health reportedly rejects the germ theory of disease. The acting head of FEMA didn’t know we have hurricane season. These aren’t bureaucratic glitches—they’re deliberate choices by a government that treats expertise like an infection and facts like the enemy.

And somehow, the tech billionaires decided this was their guy.

It wasn’t always this way. Silicon Valley once leaned blue. Socially liberal, vaguely utopian, happy to cut checks to Democrats so long as nobody asked too many questions about labor practices or taxes. But things changed. Biden’s administration—cautiously, belatedly—started to treat Big Tech like the monopolistic powerhouse it is. Lina Khan at the FTC looked under the hood. Gary Gensler at the SEC looked at crypto and saw a Ponzi scheme. AI stopped being shiny and started being scary.

To the tech barons, this wasn’t regulation—it was heresy.

And so, they turned. Musk, Andreessen, Thiel, even Zuckerberg—who helped tank bipartisan efforts to protect kids online by cozying up to Republicans. These men who once claimed to be building the future are now shoveling cash and code into the campaign of a man who doesn’t believe in climate change, who doesn't read, and who is actively dismantling the Enlightenment values that made the tech industry possible.

Let’s not kid ourselves: this isn’t about “free speech” or “anti-woke.” It’s about power. They’re not backing trump because they believe in him. They’re backing him because he’ll let them operate without accountability.

They’re not inventing anything anymore. They’re extracting. Platforms have gone from useful to parasitic. Products have worsened. Surveillance is rampant. Algorithms push outrage and rot. Cory Doctorow called it “enshittification”—the corporate lifecycle where a product starts by pleasing users, then shifts to pleasing advertisers, and finally turns into a sludge machine that serves no one but shareholders.

And when did the government finally dared to notice? The tech lords shrieked betrayal.

But they didn’t take their ball and go home. They took it to trump.

And if you try to explain any of this—to someone who’s committed, or complicit, or just too comfortable—you’ll likely hit a wall. Sometimes literally.
When someone says, “We’re done here,” it’s often a signal that they’ve reached their limit for processing information that challenges their worldview. It’s less an admission of “nonsense” and more a tactic to avoid discomfort and maintain their existing beliefs. Understanding these underlying psychological mechanisms can help make sense of these challenging interactions, even if it doesn’t change the outcome of that particular conversation.

They may tell themselves it’s transactional. They may think they’re buying protection. What they’re buying is chaos. What they’re enabling is rule by tantrum and vendetta, by conspiracy and grievance. They are throwing their weight behind a man who will burn the system down just to see his name on the ashes.

And the rest of us—those of us who still believe in public schools, vaccines, books, ballots, facts, history, journalism, science—we’re left trying to write about anything else while the roof caves in.

You don’t write about trump because it’s fun. You write about him because he’s the infection, and pretending not to see it doesn’t make it go away. You write about him in the way a doctor talks about cancer. Because it’s there. Because it’s growing. Because not talking about it is a death sentence.

He’s not the point of the story. But he’s blocking the door to the next chapter.

And sure, he’ll be gone eventually. One way or another. But what he unlocked—the license to hate openly, to break the law proudly, to lie reflexively, and to cheer while doing it—that won’t vanish with him. That’s in the bloodstream now. That’s what we’re up against.

So, I write. Because I refuse to let this man define us in silence. Because the real sickness is not just the man himself—it’s the way we keep letting him act without consequence, without reckoning, without accountability.

Let the record show I didn’t look away.