New England Patriots owner Robert Kraft delivers remarks during an event celebrating the team’s Super Bowl win hosted by President Donald Trump on the South Lawn at the White House on April 19, 2017, in Washington, D.C.
Photo: Chip Somodevilla (Getty Images)

The search for meaningful silver linings during Donald Trump’s presidency largely rests on the concept of maybe. 

Maybe this’ll inspire us to be more politically active. Maybe the Democratic Party will embrace a more progressive agenda instead of attempting to partner double Dutch with the right. Maybe, since Trump’s ascension has spawned an atmosphere where the stew of isms that make up America are less subtle and less veiled now, there might be a more honest reckoning of exactly how essential they are to America’s foundation, exoskeleton and economy. And maybe this’ll all be worth it if it ends in a Trump perp walk down U Street.

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Of course, it’s possible—perhaps even probable—that none of this will happen. Still, a nigga can dream.

In the meantime, I have to admit to finding a slight (and slightly perverse) joy in watching what Trump is doing to the NFL owners.

This group of (extremely) wealthy, (mostly) white and (largely) conservative men who are used to and have taken advantage of every privilege known to man (and possibly some privileges only known to genies); who lord over a possibly evil entity, specifically engineering it to ensure that its level of malevolence is directly correlated to the cash it continues to shit; who’ve inspired and employed an entire industry devoted to the perpetual genuflection and performative fellating of them, a world where terms such as “benevolent ownership” ARE ACTUAL COMPLIMENTS, have met their match in Donald Trump.

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He is someone with more power than they wield. He is someone who is somehow even more vain and petty than they are. He is someone with even less concern for morality and decency than they feign to possess. And he is making them all eat shit. Even when they publicly (and stupidly) kowtow to him, he returns with another bucket. And then he sits and watches them eat every peanut. “YOU MISSED A SPOT, JERRY JONES!”

Perhaps one day Donald will trip and fall into the bucket himself. Which I’m sure is what the NFL owners are hoping for. But what they don’t know—and what most of us been knowin’—is that if that happens, they’ve tried so hard to get close to him that he’ll just use them (again) to break his fall.