The 10 Stages Of Finding Out Someone You Love Supports Donald Trump

I am a very lucky person. I have great friends and wonderful family. This means that by and large I have not had to deal with anyone in my immediate circle revealing to me that they support Donald Trump for president.

But I know that this isn't the case for many other of you poor unfortunate souls. 

With that in mind I have constructed a list of what exactly goes through your head when someone you love owns up to being a Trump Supporter. Luckily I have a very powerful imagination, which I think will become pretty clear in just a minute. 

We want to disown any person who likes Trump. Because how could we like them if they like Trump? But what if they are someone we love? Like our mom, or our brother?

What if they are someone we think is sexy as hell … like Brad Pitt?

1. "I'm sorry, what?"

When someone I love reveals that they love Donald Trump, this is always my first reaction. Luckily, it has barely happened. Every single time I am sure that I have misheard, or misunderstood or that they are pulling some kind of elaborate joke on me.

I'm not a crazy person and most of my friends and loved ones aren't crazy people so when they say something crazy, I give them the credit of incredulity. 

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2. "Can you tell me... why?"

Once I have learned that the person I'm talking to hasn't just had a stroke, it seems only fair to figure out what exactly is going on. I ask them to explain themselves and their position to me. I probably shouldn't do this because there is absolutely no reason to support Donald Trump.

Not one. Unless you are the owner of a small independent tanning outfit. 

3. "But what about his racism?"

At this point, the person I love has said something totally insane. They would have to. There is no other alternative. I am left with two options, beat them senseless, or try to help them see reason.

Because I don't have many loved ones, I opt for the "seeing reason" one. Trump's racism is undeniable. 

4. "But what about his sexism?"

If we make it past racism then clearly I am no longer talking to someone I love. I am talking to someone I used to love or maybe to an imaginary version of A-List Hollywood celebrity Mr. William Bradley Pitt during tense pillow talk after picking him up on the emotional rebound while drinking at a Casino in Vegas.

Trump was attracted to a 12-year-old. Trump calls fat women disgusting. Trump is a sexist monster. Trump has been accused of raping a 13-year-old girl. 

Why won't Brad Pitt listen?

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5. "But what about his lying?"

At this point Brad Pitt is probably pulling up his pants and frantically trying to figure out where he left his sunglasses. He just wants to get out of there and thought telling me he loved Trump would do it. He didn't expect a game of 20 questions. I am not letting it go. 

I have his sunglasses under my pillow and until he explains how he can support a known liar for the highest public office in the land, that is where they will stay. 

6. "But what about his lack of any and all experience?" 

This is what I am saying while Brad Pitt locks himself in the bathroom. He's turned on the shower but I don't think he is showering. I think he is crying. "

Do you know that Donald Trump is just a businessman?" I yell through the door.

More crying. 

7. "How can you love me AND Donald Trump?"

This is what I am saying when Brad Pitt's security team finally gets the door open and starts dragging me away.

I know very well that Brad Pitt doesn't love me (he doesn't love anything anything but architecture and his sweet Mary Jane), but if he is going to treat me like a crazy person, I'm going to act like a crazy person. 

8. "I guess we are enemies now." 

This is what I say to the bartender across the street after the encounter is over. I am still wearing the hotel bathrobe which I figure retails for a cool $400 minimum. It is terrible that Brad Pitt is my enemy now, but at least I got a good story (and an excellent bathrobe) out of it.

The bartender doesn't believe a word of it. Classic Bernie Bro. 

9. "DO NOT EVEN TRY TO TRASH TALK HILLARY." 

This is what I say to the bartender when, after my third scotch, he starts insisting that Hillary Clinton murdered Vince Foster. I am standing up on the bar stool.

I accidentally dip the tie of the bathrobe into the watery dredges of my scotch. It's been a long day. 

10. "Goodbye." 

This is what I say when I am forcibly removed from the bar, left to stare up at the night sky. It's hard to see the stars in the city, so I decide to walk out to the desert. My robe is dragging along the sidewalk, but I don't care. As I reach the city limits I look up and see his face, Donald Trump's face, glowering down on me, his dry, labial mouth pronouncing that he will make us great again. I will rest beneath a boabab tree in desert.

I will store up my reserves of power and in November I will vote, and together as one great nation we will burn down that billboard, and maybe some great works of architecture too.

Imaginary Brad Pitt has it coming.

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