Fencing has nothing to do with building a fence. Herr Trumfph’s vast dictionary doesn’t include the distinction.
Fencing is an honorable ancient and modern sport, with strict rules of engagement, reminiscent of dueling between two honorable men settling a dispute without enlisting a battalion of warriors. Verbal fencing was also known to prevail in matters of governance. In the past century, women have taken up these activities, and adhering to the same rules, are often victorious over male opponents. Physical prowess is not the leveler. Nor is gender. Superior brain-manship is the key to winning at these games of physical chess. Herr Trumfph has neither weaponry nor armored uniform for fencing. Nor information. Nor brain power. He is likely to stare down the edge of the blade, looking for the trigger, and wonder how to shoot the bullets. If only the blade were a barrel.
Herr Trumfph teeters on the edge of his Bawl-Wall, about to fall into Lake Narcissus as he admires his fine set of coronation robes, unaware that the sign on his bare-ass reads “extortionist” for all the world to see. He twiddles his tweets acclaiming victory over the world, abandoning allies, and “feuhro-ling “ without pay civilian troops who keep the rest of us safe. He scoffs at the credo that we don’t negotiate with kidnappers. His demands for ransom prevail. On the Kindergarten play yard and in the halls of lawmakers who are paralyzed by chaos. He rules by intimidation.
Herr Trumfph lounges by the sea in feudal glory, as federal workers beg for handouts of dry crusts of bread to feed their families a Christmas dinner. Some may recall, from history lessons, the outcome for Marie Antoinette when she was told the people had no bread. Languishing among satins and silks she said, “Let them eat cake.” In short order she lost more than her coifed pompadour.
Herr Trumfph is not likely to see it, but the resemblance is dour.