By Kevin D. Williamson
Sunday, September 25, 2016
I have invented a new drinking game for the upcoming
Clinton–Trump presidential debate. It works like this: You stand in the
stairwell of a very tall building. Every time somebody says something stupid or
dishonest, you walk up a flight of stairs. At the end, you jump out of the
nearest window, and people drink at your wake.
There are no winners.
Unfortunately, there will be a winner in November.
That some part of this republic’s well-being should be
dependent upon a ceremonial exchange of words between Hillary Rodham Clinton
and Donald Trump — two of the most dishonest, vapid, and empty human-shaped
things in American public life — is enough to induce despair. But millions will
watch, and one must wonder what, exactly, it is they hope to get out of it.
Millions watch the political conventions, too, which is
equally mysterious but may shed some light on the debates. Having been to many
of those conventions as a reporter, I am painfully aware of something that may
not be obvious to the typical home viewer: These events are very, very
carefully designed to avoid the production of actual news. If a real story
comes out of your political convention, you have done it wrong. That is why
they are so dreadfully boring. It may be that people watch boring political
events for the same reason they watch boring car races: There is always the
possibility of a fiery crash. In much the same way, the possibility of a brawl
enlivens the otherwise unbearably tedious game of ice hockey.
If the debates were what they pretend to be — an exchange
of views and ideas between presidential candidates — then Mrs. Clinton would be
in the catbird seat. She’s a grim-faced, dotty old bat, to be sure, and someone
who has never in her long political career ever been so much as downwind of an
interesting and original idea, but she knows the rules of the game and has been
adequately schooled. She is well positioned to treat the debate as a less
refined version of the Japanese tea ceremony — going through the motions is the
only thing she’s ever been any good at.
But the debates are not debates. They have nothing to do
with ideas or substantive policy views. They are spectacle, and spectacle is
the thing for which Donald Trump has a great talent. Clinton is good at
satisfying convention and expectations, whereas Trump is good at making a
ruckus. George Bernard Shaw advised against wrestling with pigs on the grounds
that “you both get dirty, and the pig likes it.” But there is no way for
Clinton to avoid wrestling this particular pig: She is too much of a creature of
political convention to refuse to participate in these ceremonial debates, and
too much of a creature of convention to know what to expect out of them.
One can only imagine what is going on in the Trump camp.
Trump has made a lot of money and endured four humiliating bankruptcies (so
far) and literally has been in the business of rolling the dice. He has won big
and lost big, and it surely must be a temptation to him and to those who have
bought into his daft messianic cult to borrow from the old Reagan approach and
“let Trump be Trump.” That could mean anything from simply peppering Clinton
with humiliating schoolyard taunts to showing up in a fur pimp coat with a
stripper on each arm.
Trump is capable of almost anything, which is why the
usual conservative argument for him — Clinton is 100 percent guaranteed evil,
but with Trump there’s a chance! — always leaves me cold. There’s a chance with
Trump, sure: a chance of almost anything. He might put Randy Barnett on the
Supreme Court. He might put Judge Judy there, too.
In a politics of pure spectacle, the advantage belongs to
the creature of pure celebrity.
In any case, we really ought to stop pretending that
these debates are debates, or that anybody is watching to learn which candidate
has the more plausible plan for reducing the deficit or putting the economy
back on a path toward more robust growth. (Neither of the candidates has
anything like an intelligent program for the budget or the economy, in fact.)
Any voter who has an IQ above that of an item on the appetizer menu at an
oyster bar knows that neither one of these candidates is much inclined to tell
the truth about anything, and that so-called plans are vaguely defined
marketing schemes that rarely if ever have anything to do with what a president
does once in office.
Philosophers have had a lot of fun with the Epimenides
paradox, in which the Cretan philosopher says: “All Cretans are liars.”
Cretans I don’t know. Cretins I do, and what else could
you call the people who lie professionally — or those who enjoy being
professionally lied to as a form of recreation?
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