Worst. Party Host. Ever.

Would YOU go to an event hosted by Jeff Epstein's BFF if he'd spent ten years insulting you?

In third grade, I was tapped to play Patrick Henry when my third grade class put on a reenactment of the signing of the Declaration of Independence.

Some might argue that was when I peaked as an actor, but I would say it was surely a few years later, in eighth grade, as I played Harold Hill in “The Music Man.” Or maybe even a few years later doing small indie films with bygone friends of a bygone era.

Then again, maybe acting like a normal human being for almost 46 years was and remains my greatest acting triumph.

At any rate, I think the experience of that reenactment did play some role in planting the seeds of an interest in American history and politics that made me the soyboy betacuck libtarded political satirist I am today. For many years, I’ve put politics at the center of most of the comedy I create, and truly believe that experience was one step on the road to me eventually discovering political satire as a means to express what I wanted to.

I know it didn’t occur to me then, as I shouted out the famous lines of “Give me liberty, or give me death,” that I would live to see the day 250 years after my third grade play took place. That can seem like quite a long time, and compared to human lifespans, it is. Then again, our current rapist-in-chief has been alive for nearly a third of its existence, and Mitch McConnell was I think alive when George Washington ordered his slaves to chop down his mom’s cherry tree, or however the story goes.

In the two and a half centuries since the Declaration was signed, the United States has gone through growing pain after growing pain. Some could argue, and I’d be inclined to agree, that the decision to placate slaveholers and kick the can down the road, adding a “Three-Fifths Compromise” to the Constitution, was the genesis of the deep divides in this country that are yet to be healed.

One might think that a big birthday party for the country might help heal those old wounds enough to lower the tenor and temperature.

In other times, other eras of American history, perhaps that could be true. But your big ol’ state fair is gonna be empty, and your Yay America birthday party will be a dud if the man in charge of selling tickets for it spends most of his time insulting the millions and millions of us who didn’t vote for him.

Vain and shallow men like our McNugget blooded president aren’t capable of seeing that events like the 250th birthday of the United States aren’t for or about them. And they make everything about them. It’s like slapping their names on an existing building, on top of another already dead president’s name, just to prove to everyone you were president once.

It makes me think if his parents had shown him true parental love and affection, just once, maybe he wouldn’t try to hijack everything, and maybe he would stop spraying his name on everything like dogs spray their piss all over territory they want to mark as their own. Then again, his parents were as repugnant as he is, so the chances of his apple falling far from their racist, entitled, ignorant trees were slim to none, I’d guess.

I’m not even saying that I would be super-into a rah-rah America party with some other president in charge. I’m just saying the worst person to gin up interest in a party you want to be attended by people of all walks (but do they really want that?) is the guy who makes takes it as a personal insult and reason for a vendetta if you didn’t vote for him.

Let’s face it - he’s always wanted this to be about him. Because everything in his life is about him. And guess what? He got what he wanted. He made the 250th anniversary about himself, and the results were a largely empty field with carnival booths and a stage, displays falling apart, and a complete dearth of community and coming together.

Because that’s what happens when you pretend to be popular and then create events to disprove it.

The man is poison. He’s cancer. For a country that was already barely functioning because it never addressed its issues with race and class, putting the most racist and classist pig in charge was certainly…a choice that was made. What other outcome would be or should be expected when the Guy Who Couldn’t Keep a Casino Solvent is the guy who gets to plan the party?

In order for America to put on the kind of spectacle that MAGA wants, they’d need to not be MAGA. They’d need to be willing and capable of admitting that this land is indeed, OUR land. They’d have to put down their genius barbs about “two genders” and stop calling us “baby killers” or “groomers” long enough to share space with us, and does anyone think that’s possible right now?

Had he decided months ago to start cooling off the temperature, to start at least trying to reach the 70% of the electorate who hate his guts right now, maybe things could be different. If he stopped playing his hits at rallies, if he stopped throwing them the red meat lies about “transgender for everyone” and the like, maybe his own rabid cult would settle down and join us for a time of celebration.

And maybe if his dad had been something other than a flaming cross that fucked a copy of Birth of a Nation, we’d be better off right now too.

The admiration I felt for the United States as a third grader is all but gone, replaced by the cold hard truths that nobody can avoid. For me personally, the last nine months have also permanently disabused me of any waning bits of belief that being on the right side of history protects you from extemporaneous consequences if the truth you’re telling is too inconvenient for fans of white nationalist podcast hosts.

But that’s a story for when my lawyers tell me I can tell it.

I know I can’t speak for all of us, but something tells me I’m not the only one who knows way too much about the United States to get so excited about wishing it a happy birthday. But if anyone other than that white collar criminal in an ill-fitting suit who can’t stand up straight had asked me to, I might have at least considered it.