…by Nia Molinari
I spent four years at college preparatory boarding school, and I don’t regret it. The education was fabulous, both academically and socially. I learned how to effectively navigate privileged assholes with precision, although I did not realize at the time that this was an actual skill. In retrospect, I should have used it more.
After leaving boarding school, I valiantly rebelled against my upbringing and never looked back, nearly to my demise. I never thought about my adolescence much unless something triggered a memory. And I didn’t care about politics. I thought it was all pointless. I occasionally voted in presidential elections, but was otherwise politically nihilistic.
That all changed on June 16, 2015, when that vulgar, thirsty, attention-whore freak of nature came down the escalator of his gaudy Tower of Babylon and announced he was running for President of the United States. As a former professional stripper employed by lesser mobsters, I knew what Donald Trump was. And I was terrified.
I began to read about politics: Historical. Contemporary. Domestic. International. I was obsessed with figuring out how this could have happened. I’ve now spent the last six years reading non-stop about shit I never cared about, and should have.
After all, these men, these plutocratic, predatory, self-entitled sociopaths in country club clothes, have been manipulating and destroying the world my entire life. Perhaps my innate revulsion is due to my prep school upbringing, and this is why I chose to politically bury my head in the sand for so long.
One man in particular seems to be holding the privileged-prick MAGAphone at the moment—the everlasting gobstopper of gluttonous hypocrisy, one Tucker Swanson McNear Carlson.
Like Brett Kavanaugh, Tucker reminds me of the majority of the guys I went to high school with. I imagine them sitting at the country club bar in pressed khakis and slip-on penny loafers, no socks, emanating a sickening reek of Polo by Ralph Lauren.
One of them is lewdly talking about the waitress’s tits, and the other is bragging about his favorite stripper’s new boob job (which he paid for), while their wives and kids have Sunday brunch across the room.
Hypotheticals aside, there’s plenty of information about Tucker out there from people who are much more politically savvy than I am. Hell, I’m still learning. This is a great overview.
“I think the thing he gets a knock for that he doesn’t deserve is the idea that he’s evolved and changed in some radical new direction. Tucker has always been that guy. He is legitimately that guy. He is not faking it.” Maddow got her start at MSNBC on Tucker’s show, so she knows what she’s talking about.
My instinct wasn’t far off. I discovered that Tucker and I have a number of things in common: We were both raised as staunch Republicans, had a parent that bailed on us in early childhood, and then a step-parent who came from old money.
We were kicked out of our first boarding school, subsequently graduated from a different prestigious boarding school, and we both have an affinity for Hunter S. Thompson.
There are plenty of Tucker grievances to write about: His daily pontification of flagrant utter disinformation bullshit, his vituperative, mass-cultural-gaslighting word salad about current events, his pretentiously smug mug and psychotic laugh, and, this week, his brazen attempt to distort and whitewash the events of January 6.