On Taylor and Trump

It’s a $50 million dollar grossing film at worst. An absolute blockbuster at best. The protagonist is a 6’5” 250lb. All-American white male who has mental telepathy with a quarterback blessed with generational talent. This allows him to seemingly always be open. He’s also insanely good at catching the football and running after said catch. What our gritty, yet handsome, Cleveland Heights boy doesn’t know is that the whole time he was making 1st round draft picks look like busts, the universe had him on a collision course with arguably one of the top 5 songwriters – yet alone performers – of all-time.

She looks like the first image that comes up in a Google search for “beautiful American woman.” And she’s every bit Rosey the Riveter as she is Audrey Hepburn. The fans? They love her because she’s honest. She’s true blue. Her ride is their ride. And you can’t slide a piece of paper between that embrace. This forces her into a life that’s envious from the outside and torturous from within. The adoration is intoxicating, but the scrutiny of every growing pain – of every extinguished flame – could drive a woman to smash the microscope into a million microscopic pieces. It’s everything and nothing at the same time.

Until they meet.

And while this first-round Hall of Fame inductee battles injury-after-injury in what may be his final march to the Super Bowl…love enters the chat. The headlines ask if she’ll be in the stands. His pre-game looks start tipping albums. For the bleeding hearts, romance. For the Capitalists, a tale taught at Fuqua. Pass the popcorn.

Siri, find me a Republican movie.

But Trump gives it two thumbs down.

This triggers a bunch of nervous Chiefs of Staff texting their bosses with screengrabs and suggestions for moving forward. It infuriates the left. It rallies the right. And it gives sleepy morning anchors a triple-shot of finally something relatively less frightening to talk about for a few hours.

Here’s the thing. It doesn’t make any sense. This should be huge. Yougee…massive…bigger than anyone’s ever scene before in the history of mankind. This is red meat tossed into a caged pen of starved tigers. This is the world Trump wants. This is exactly what’s he’s selling. Check the flyer, man.

However, you may have forgotten the first rule of cult leadership. You zig when they think you’re gonna zag. Chess, not checkers. So, he brushes his coat sleeve and adjusts his absurdly long red tie and two goons mobilize from across the room. They know exactly what needs to be done. Travis and Taylor are cancelled. Make America Great Again.

It’s not the love story the two-time divorcee rejects. It’s fear. It’s fear of this absolutely transcendental woman unleashing not only her power, but her personal relationships, with 90+ million fans worldwide – including millions of 18–24-year-old female voters in the U.S. And a 6’5” boyfriend batting down his last-second Hail Mary to stay out of jail for eternity.

That’s why he wants to change the channel.