Whenever Trump spits out one of his vile insults, racist tropes, inane nicknames, his surrogates all say “He’s a counter puncher.”
He’s not a counter puncher. A counter puncher absorbs the blow, then comes back strong and takes out his opponent. That’s not what Trump is doing. At last I checked, the Squad are still there and if anything, they are gaining in popularity. Today’s target, Elijah Cummings is just fine. I expect Trump’s attack will boost his credibility.
Trump reminds me of a cat I had when I was in high school. My mother was a bit of a “crazy cat lady.” At one point we had six cats — mostly strays who moved in with us because Mom set quite the feline table. The cat in question was one of these strays — we called him Gresha. He was squat, medium haired and gray. He was overweight and near the bottom of the pecking order in our cat pack. When one of the other cats wanted to remind him of his place in the grand order, he would back away until he couldn’t back up anymore. Then he would sit up on his back legs, squeeze his eyes shut, and flail his paws at the other cat. He seldom, if ever made contact with his tormentor. He never came out the winner.
That’s what Trump does. He isn’t a counter puncher, he’s a panicked flailer. Without his enablers to surround him, he would be curled up in a fetal position under the Resolute Desk or backed up in a corner with his eyes closed flailing his arms for dear life and wailing.
Trump’s vile mouth doesn’t come from strength. It comes from his insecurity and cowardice.