Tomorrow, an adult administration moves out of Washington. Grown-ups will depart the White House. Grown-ups will not be moving in.
There has been no shortage of inventories of Donald Trump's faults: his ignorance, his boorishness, his venality, his avidity for bullying and ridicule and lying. His reflexive xenophobia, misogyny, and authoritarianism. His witless blurts that threaten to undo, in 140 characters, decades of diplomacy and international understandings that foster global security. His surrounding himself with oligarchs and generals and ideologues, a collection of greedy craphounds and entitled hacks who have yet to say anything that would reassure us that they have a clue what it means to govern a superpower and preserve the interests of 325 million people.
There's nothing on that list that does not belong, does not merit anxiety. But the grave flaw in these people, the point source of all the harm they could do starting tomorrow, is this: They are juvenile. Every goddam one.
Almost to a person, Trump and his cadre seem frozen in adolescence. Their intellectual and emotional maturity never advanced beyond the seventh grade. Their perspective on life and culture and society, their approach to resolving problems and governance and human relations is locked in a middle school lunchroom. There seems not to be an adult in the bunch. Trump's juvenility is on display 24 hours a day: his insecurity, his tough-guy posturing, his hypersensitivity, his lack of curiosity or introspection, his inability to pay attention or fashion a coherent statement of more than 20 words. His peevish arrogance.
And all those other smug bullyboys in the Republican party leadership—what a collection of vapid punks. Sneering from the cool kids table at all the other losers as they jockey to sit closest to the witless jackass who happens to be QB 1 and dating the head cheerleader.
Were I their father, I would not hand any of them the car keys. Tomorrow, we will hand them our country.