When Laughter Still Meant Something

Before politics hardened into grievance, one night of truth, humour, and consequence revealed more than it meant to

There was a time when public life could still hold a mirror up to itself and laugh. It was a time when laughter could even correct a lie. Now we live with what happens when it doesn’t.

It was a long time ago, but if you dare, travel back with me for a moment. Back to a time when reminiscing wasn’t an obligatory price to be paid.

What is it with Trump and Barack Obama? “What has he got against you?” the President was asked.

His response: “This all dates back to when we were growing up together, in Kenya.”

That was the night the President dismantled Donald Trump, piece by Valencia piece, and then declined to reassemble him.

Trump was at the summit of his exceedingly repulsive birther fantasy campaign, and just a few days prior, Obama’s long-form birth certificate was made public by the state of Hawaii at his request, hoping to put a stop to the bullshit.

With delicate acuity, he mocked Trump’s presidential aspirations: “I know that he’s taken some flak lately — no one is prouder to put this birth-certificate matter to rest than the Donald. And that’s because he can finally get back to the issues that matter, like: did we fake the moon landing? What really happened in Roswell? And where are Biggie and Tupac?”

The President, unrelenting in his refined, eloquent way, took more chunks out of Donald: “We all know about your credentials and breadth of experience. For example — no, seriously — just recently, in an episode of Celebrity Apprentice …” Laughter rang out across the audience at the mention of the program’s name. As Obama put it, when a team didn’t perform well, Trump “didn’t blame Lil Jon or Meatloaf,” he looked straight at Trump — “You fired Gary Busey. And these are the kinds of decisions that would keep me up at night.”

Trump’s response was imperishable.

Anyone present that evening could never have imagined the complete and obvious humiliation of Trump’s life. Like a bloke locked in stocks, his head was screwed firmly in place, and with an unchanging countenance, he drowned in wave after wave of overwhelming laughter.

Not a single clap of his hand, not even the slightest nod or bashful smile; with his chin locked in unmalleable rage and hatred, he just sat there, motionless, a symbol of the permanent intuitions of the American aggrieved.

One could have been forgiven for feeling sorry for him had he not launched such a repugnant act of pure prejudice. Indeed, the President’s performance was relevant and presented an impact that was perhaps not immediately apparent.

Trump’s sense of public humiliation grew to such an extent that he perhaps decided unconsciously that he would somehow exact retribution, perhaps even run for president again — however absurd or rebelliously — and redeem himself. Such as it was, the customary American practice of “roasting” and “roasted” had been oddly and extraordinarily disrupted. Of course, Trump had reacted in character.

That night, hatred and fear had been entrenched in him, and Trump, driven by the essence of both, will seek vengeance for the rest of his miserable life.