Minor birds dare to condemn without even an interview
When gassy brainiacs opine on the dinosaur media, essaying to "diagnose" our amazingly dynamic 45th president without the elementary detail of a face-to-face, one must debunk their pathetic efforts, even were they in the galactic ballpark of accurate, because their posturing in a wholly political, partisan way is ipso facto unprofessional.
Fitness is determined not by one's lowest-shelf unregistered opponents. Stability, ditto.
It is in the same realm as quacks who look at a cartoon and "diagnose" a malady from an acetate or paper image.
In case you haven't been to med school in the past decade or five, any such blithe "diagnosis" isn't kosher, isn't definitive, is not even one thousandth reliable. It isn't worth the swamped out fetid air it rode in on.
A graphologist for many years, I compared President Trump's actual handwriting from before he was elected to his writing now. TV-viewers see that each time the president signs a document or deregulates another of the damaging, bizarre, and largely unvetted exec actions of the former resident of the White House, he holds up the two facing pages document. His handwriting is readily available.
Handwriting isn't rocket science. It is, however, a fairly accepted gauge of the writer's energy, health, and overall emotionality, along with many other indicia of a person. Abnormal people, mass murderers, and serial molesters all show in their handwriting, for those paying attention.
From pre-election 2016 until today, Donald J. Trump – in his clear and available signature – shows zero diminution of prowess. Easily seen, in fact, are signs of amazing robustness: his forceful, heavily ascending letters demand considerable effort and strength. His thick letters and the non-petering terminus of his signature show that this is a determined man, a man not given to letting events run his stopwatch, a man with no end of massive perseverance.
Whether you like or dislike the man, his energy and acumen have been proved a thousand times over. He speaks with few notes for an hour at a time. He hardly sleeps, as frequent tweeting indicates. He is tuned in to events overseas, and endless punditocracies have been shown embarrassingly wrong after events proved the president's statements true.
All that in the face of grievous cross-bow shooting by the ever-wrong Paul Krugmans and the stealth Democrat faux Republican Bret Stephens of the "failing New York Times."
Voters expressed doubt about the candidacy, back two elections, of Sen. John McCain. He brought in his healthy 96-year-old mother to quell doubts of his longevity. Donald J. doesn't need to haul in parents or physicians to manifest stunning strength of purpose, resilience, appetite for work, composure. His reception in world capitals show that the world takes note of his intestinal fortitude and his ability to think for himself.
In the event, a longtime graphologist is frankly awed by the robustness of his writ. The signature of the former president showed a generous dollop of blatant ego, which we all saw on a daily basis.
Without objection, this president, too, like his predecessor, shows little sign of undue humility. Trump would never have achieved this status of head of state had he been Mouseburger Milquetoast.
His signature is still firm, powerful, resolute – the signature of a sharp, capable, unimpaired "Master of the Universe" (to borrow a phrase from top cultural scribe Tom Wolfe) in full command of all his faculties.
Impairment? These critics can't handle their own ricocheting fears of missing out on the actuality of Trump's bold, if atypical, granted, accumulating achievements. He's a sane powerhouse.
Time, instead, to put the stethoscope to those clawing cacklers of catatonia, the drive-by media mumbling mavens of madness, themselves.