It occurred to me the other day that these men represent two sides of the same coin: populist, unscripted, wildly unpredictable. Each, in his way, has turned part of the world upside down; each brings to his job a head-turning—sometimes, jaw-dropping—authenticity. Each has a penchant for breaking the rules.
These guys define what it means to be outside-the-box. And: not so very long ago, I don’t think anyone could have predicted either man would be where he is today.
One man hasn’t watched television in 25 years, gets around in a Ford Focus, and is named for a nature-loving pauper who didn’t believe in owning money, property or shoes. He is considered infallible, but often doubts his daily utterances.
The other man spent 14 years in the mirrored embrace of a television show about him, is transported by a fleet with his name on the side, and looks down on anyone who hasn’t amassed a mountain of property. He thinks he’s infallible.
In a few weeks, Pope Francis will visit our fair land, a fitting pivot from the Summer of Trump, closing out a gluttonous episode of narcissism, rudeness, frivolity and xenophobia. For all that the orangutan-haired vulgarian has done to elevate the worst human traits a public figure can have, Francis is the anti-Trump. He has more power, media magnetism and authenticity in his lone functioning lung than Donald Trump has in his entire empire of ego.
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