Donald Trump, the old sly dog, tweeted out his congratulations to participants of the Women's March, those folks apparently celebrating his first glorious year in office with all its many economic triumphs.
Pretty sure he knows that's not why they were out there in the streets. After all, the man is no mental midget—and he has the paperwork to prove it.
I get the feeling, though, he may be exaggerating the value of the cognitive test he took (at his insistence, the doctor said). It was designed to detect early forms of dementia, to see if a patient is dragging himself along at the minimum velocity necessary to keep from falling over.
Passing the test puts the president at sea level, that's all. But Trump seems to think he's now authorized to join Mensa, as if he is not floating in a dinghy in the middle of the ocean but standing atop a tall mountain.
(The top of Mt. Everest is just above sea level in the movie Waterworld. Maybe Trump thinks he's living in that movie—where his nemesis, fake-news global warming, has done its worst. [Or, actually, far more than its worst; melting all the ice on the planet would hardly impinge on our stock of dry land, though coastal cities would certainly flood without the building of dikes about the height of Trump's Hypothetical Wall.])
Trump spends his days in a universe of superlatives. Everything he does is the best ever seen, the most magnificent, worthy of only the highest praise. (Praise he is quick to deliver to himself on your behalf, saving you the trouble. You're welcome!)
Unfortunately, Trump's grasp on reality fails to inform him of his error in this regard. He may not be mentally ill (at least in the arena of dementia), but he is severely impaired nonetheless. Not that he can ever know. His confidence in his abilities is truly gargantuan—and that superlative he absolutely earns.
(For a list of Trump's outrageous boasts, check this out.)
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