No, not your Beautiful Wall, of which not a single inch has been built. Not your quest to deny medical care to millions or airports to Muslims or a modicum of respect to your own minions.
No, you have assumed a mantle so grand, outrageous and heinous that not even you believed it when you tried to hang it on Mr. Obama. You, sir, are the Father of ISIS. You are the Patron Saint of the Caliphate, the redeeming Twelfth Imam of Daesh.
Congratulations are in order. Not since Churchill after the Great War has a Western statesman so indelibly engraved his name in ancient stone as the architect of so much futile slaughter.
And in the very same theater! Points!
You so love your name. You have spent millions you never earned forming it in giant, shining letters and hanging it above the world’s great cities. You’ve slapped it on everything from bad meat to screaming babies to reality television. It’s such a fine name, you thought, it should live forever.
And now, it will. Every horrific attack claimed hereafter by Daesh and its adherents will be yours, sir. Every hideously maimed innocent, every charred and pocked wall, every screaming siren and weeping witness are yours. Should one of your new children shoot someone on Fifth Avenue, will you then lose voters?
This betrayal, this stain that chokes every honorable American, this green light to the slaughter of those who have stood beside our soldiers, and its cynical, nihilistic invitation to our enemies, this is your legacy.
Congratulations, Donald. You are the Father of ISIS.
The least you could do is offer us cigars.