Debate between D. Trump and H. Clinton channeling another narcissist, in the manner of Oda Mae Brown in Ghost

Trump: Crooked Hillary. Benghazi. Email scandal.

Hillary: What a sad little joke you are, Donald. Yes, I’ve made mistakes. You are a mistake.

Trump: Nobody can trust Crooked Hillary, who put our nation’s security at risk.

Hillary: Not quite, Sweetheart. But what our nation and the world can trust is that your brain runs on a whoopee cushion and Wonder Bread and is wiped out by Charmin whenever you feel the urge to change your air-quotes “mind.”

Trump: Our way of life is under threat by Radical Islam and you cannot even bring yourself to say the words.

Hillary: You know, I think I did say the words right at the moment when you were pat-patting your daughter’s ass – but you were in a world of dreams and didn’t hear me.

Trump: You’re a world-class liar. You think you’re entitled to the office of president.

Hillary: “Donald Trump is not a flatulent blowhard with about three adult-proof brain cells.” Now that’s a world-class lie, Donald My Man. But when it comes to lying – Jesus H-for-Harry Christ! It’s proven that narcissists like you don’t even set foot in the Land of Fact. Truth to a narcissist is exactly and only what feels good at the moment. And what feels good is to puff yourself up like an emasculated balloon with self-esteem issues. Don’t you know how sad you are, mine liege? [said with false pathos].

Trump: We don’t know anything about you in terms of religion. Now, you’ve been in the public eye for years and years, and yet there’s no – there’s nothing out there.

Hillary: This from the man who says “two Corinthians”! You’re the “number two,” Donald, not the Bible. Ha ha.

Trump: You were the worst Secretary of State in the history of the United States.

Hillary: [Looks at him with a mild, faraway smile of wonder.] Let me pull up a chair, Traitorous Pal of Putin and Sob Sister to the Homeless, and sit rapt at your discourse on the history of Secretaries of State, something you know about because you’ve read many books. A learnèd man you are, Donald! Here we go.   . . .   Start.   . . .   I’m sitting.

Trump: You were favored to win in the last election and you got schlonged.

Hillary: Hey, Fakakta Boy. Shtup is what I’m sure this election will do to you. Just ask any rebbe in Two Corinthians.

Trump: I know you went to the bathroom in the middle of the other debate. It’s disgusting. I don’t want to talk about it. [Contorts his face.] No, it’s too disgusting. Don’t say it, it’s disgusting.

Hillary: My fellow Americans, here is a man-baby who is thinking the word “doody” in his man-baby brain, and just can’t take it. Look at his little face scrinch up. Here’s a lollypop, Donald. Calm down, baby. This is a pubescent Casanova who, in his heart of hearts, can’t believe that women go to the bathroom.

And here, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens when a little boy is shown a world of contempt and power and is given to believe he is superior, he is uniquely special. The eight-year-old avatar of perfection!* This is a jail of roses and gold, and he has never left it. Psychologists know – we all know – that the intellect can grow with age but emotional maturity can remain stunted. Grown men with tantrums, road rage, puerile insults, seeing women as meat. A professor can salivate over child porn, a football coach can rape boys. Donald Trump, though, is a special one. With the vast potential of the narcissistic sham, where expertise and mental strength can be the convincing veneer over a gaping cavity, he has managed to remain a snot-boy mind, along with the emotions stuck in early junior high school, and with only one notch in his Cub Scout belt: money. Make money, think money, weasel for money, count and accumulate money. Be money. This is all he has done, as far as he has come. And he has fooled you.

Even those who despise him think he has a man’s life. But this is the ungrown: in words, looks, bullying, clawing reaches to some throne of meaning and worth. You are seeing the ever-spinning, spitting gyroscope that must spew disdain and superiority to remain upright. Real men don’t need to grab fists of money while plowing through one finish line to the next. They have a center, like a quiet lake in an underground cavern. A center of substance, of self. And it’s a lonely, alone place, which reveals a kind of paradox to the life of someone like Trump. Such an intransigent individualist he seems to be, banishing some, mocking others, indifferent to the rest. But a narcissist is the most dependent person of all. Without a coterie who believe his dream of himself, he is undermined and depressed. Without people to feel superior to, he is empty. This dependency need is child-rooted, of course. You can see the frustration of it in the second-grader who punched his teacher in the face because he “didn’t think he knew anything about music.” Someone set adrift of warmth and bond by his parents, angry, covering his wound with scar tissue Band-Aids, growing a philosophy of Self as better than, punching. This is not how you grow up, become a man on your own. You’re always hating and needing others. You’re always the bitter boy.

This is the person who too many of you want to be president. I ask you to go to the wise part of your mind, the part that knows sense and sanity despite our own immaturities and dream escapes. Only when you access the adult part of yourself, look out from that greater height, will you see the real, small size of this man-boy-child. You will see it. You will not be impressed.

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* I can’t find a reference anywhere (Internet), but I’m pretty sure I heard one of the pundit-reporters quoting Donald Trump’s statement that he is the exact same person now that he was at eight years old.