As we approach the end of the senate impeachment trial of Donald Trump, there is the acknowledgment on the one hand that there will be a generally partisan vote and that Trump will again be acquitted, and yet there is that small whisper within oneself that tells us that somehow this time our representatives will choose simple truth over partisan politics. We know that the latter will not happen, and yet the whisper persists, the callow voice of common decency, of hope in the face of rank hypocrisy and obstinate denial. And so we will be disappointed. We will shrug and say that they truly are merely a gang of political hacks, willing not only to stomach any offense but to force the offense on us as well. Donald will do his victory parade and the white supremacists, the Proud Boys, the bigots, the nuts, the shrill, deluded conspiracy enthusiasts, the neo-Nazis, the cop killers, the violent, gun-loving, filthy-mouthed insurrectionists will be at the front of the parade. What is to love about America anymore other than a memory of what it might have been? But then again, I suppose it has always been that way, hasn't it? We have always loved and hoped for what we might be, and have always been faced with what we really are.
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