This weekend, reacting to the death of Robert Mueller, a decorated Marine, lifelong public servant, and by any conventional definition an actual patriot, Trump said he was glad. Not disappointed. Not respectful. Not even silent (as if). Glad. It takes a particular kind of gracelessness to celebrate the passing of a man whose life was defined by service when your own claim to battlefield courage is a radio anecdote about avoiding STDs in 1990s New York City. Mueller was awarded the Bronze Star for heroism in Vietnam. Trump received five draft deferments, including one for bone spurs, a condition that conveniently flared precisely when the war did. One man ran toward danger; the other reframed nightlife as combat. Trump has never understood the language of duty. He has never grasped the quiet dignity of people who do the job without the performance. So he reaches for what he knows: insult, mockery, the cheap thrill of cruelty. Mueller might not have managed it with his Russia investigation, but the comparison between the two lives indicts Trump. And no amount of retroactive chest-thumping about “personal Vietnams” can close that gap.
If you think this was a low blow, wait until you see what’s next. Follow Joanna Coles at PRIMAL SCREAM on Substack.
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