A Democracy Drive Thread
His own words, in full — the rambling, self-aggrandizing, anti-expert monologues that reveal how the president actually thinks, from the nuclear-and-“good genes” speech to “nobody knew health care could be so complicated.” Further down: the running glossary of his favorite words, slogans, all-caps outbursts, and verbal tics.
A field guide to how the president talks — and this time, read from the top with the quotes in full. Where earlier versions gave a one-line label, the marquee entries now carry the whole thing: the actual, unedited words, so the incoherence, the bottomless self-regard, and the contempt for anyone who knows more than he does are visible in the original. The rambling, revealing monologues come first; below them, the glossary of recurring words, slogans, and tics, shortest last. Personal nicknames for his opponents live on their own page, The Insults.
Asked in 2015 about nuclear weapons and the Iran deal, the candidate answered with this — a single unspooling sentence that lurches from his uncle to his own genes to Wharton to how smart he is, before circling back without ever explaining anything about nuclear policy. He offers his bloodline and a relative’s MIT credentials as evidence of his own expertise. It is the purest sample of the tic that runs through this whole page: total certainty that he is the smartest person in the room, paired with a complete inability to say anything substantive about the subject he claims to command.
“Look, having nuclear — my uncle was a great professor and scientist and engineer, Dr. John Trump at MIT; good genes, very good genes, OK, very smart, the Wharton School of Finance, very good, very smart — you know, if you’re a conservative Republican, if I were a liberal, if, like, OK, if I ran as a liberal Democrat, they would say I’m one of the smartest people anywhere in the world — it’s true! — but when you’re a conservative Republican they try — oh, do they do a number — that’s why I always start off: Went to Wharton, was a good student, went there, went there, did this, built a fortune — you know I have to give my, like, credentials all the time, because we’re a little disadvantaged — but you look at the nuclear deal, the thing that really bothers me — it would have been so easy, and it’s not as important as these lives are — nuclear is so powerful; my uncle explained that to me many, many years ago, the power and that was 35 years ago; he would explain the power of what’s going to happen and he was right — who would have thought?”
From his rain-soaked 2019 “Salute to America” speech: the president told the nation that George Washington’s Continental Army “took over the airports” during the Revolutionary War — roughly a century and a half before powered flight existed. He blamed a rain-slicked teleprompter, but the prepared text never mentioned airports; he ad-libbed them. The commander-in-chief, narrating American history on the Fourth of July, inventing airports into the 1700s.
“Our Army manned the air, it rammed the ramparts, it took over the airports, it did everything it had to do. And at Fort McHenry, under the rockets’ red glare, it had nothing but victory.”
He said this in February 2017, weeks into trying to repeal the Affordable Care Act — a “discovery” that came as news to the health-policy experts, hospitals, and lawmakers who had spent decades on exactly this question. It captures the pattern behind so much of this page: a man who assumes any subject must be simple because he has not studied it, mistakes his own ignorance for the state of the field, and cannot defer to people who know more — because he is certain no one does.
“I have to tell you, it’s an unbelievably complex subject. Nobody knew that health care could be so complicated.”
On August 21, 2019, defending his trade war with China to reporters on the White House South Lawn, the president looked skyward and called himself “the chosen one.” Aides called it tongue-in-cheek; it still fit a man who routinely ranks himself among the greatest figures in history and, that same summer, shared praise hailing him as the “King of Israel” and the “second coming of God.”
“Somebody had to do it. [looking up to the sky] I am the chosen one.”
His 2016 scripture stumble at Liberty University — “Two Corinthians” instead of “Second Corinthians.”
Asked in March 2016 who he consulted on foreign policy, the candidate answered that his main adviser was himself — because he has “a very good brain.” It is the same reflex that later led him, as president, to wave off the daily intelligence briefing: the conviction that no expert can tell him anything he doesn’t already know better.
“I’m speaking with myself, number one, because I have a very good brain, and I’ve said a lot of things. … My primary consultant is myself, and I have a good instinct for this stuff.”
He tweeted this on January 6, 2018, responding to a book that questioned his mental fitness — arguing that the very fact he had become president proved he must be a genius. Rather than dispel the concern, he confirmed the pattern that runs through this page: he answers every doubt about his competence by insisting, at greater length, on his own brilliance.
“Actually, throughout my life, my two greatest assets have been mental stability and being, like, really smart… I went from VERY successful businessman, to top T.V. Star… to President of the United States (on my first try). I think that would qualify as not smart, but genius… and a very stable genius at that!”
From a December 2015 rally in South Carolina, defending his own plain vocabulary against critics — while pivoting, as ever, back to his Wharton credentials. A boast about verbal mastery delivered in a sentence that undercuts itself, and a reliable go-to whenever anyone suggests he isn’t articulate.
“I have a good education. I went to the Wharton School of Finance, which is very good. … But I know words, I have the best words. … But there is no better word than “stupid.””
His 2016 suggestion that gun owners might be able to stop Hillary Clinton from picking judges.
His 2018 description of Haiti and African nations during an immigration meeting.
His celebration after winning the 2016 Nevada caucuses.
How he pointed out a supporter at a 2016 rally.
His recurring self-defense, often “…that you’ve ever met.”
From his 2015 campaign launch on Mexican immigrants: “they’re bringing drugs, they’re bringing crime, they’re rapists.”
His 2015 dismissal of John McCain’s war-hero record.
His 2018 nuclear-button boast aimed at Kim Jong Un.
What he called Apple CEO Tim Cook, to his face.
His misspelled tweet about the fast food he served championship athletes.
His 2015 swipe at Fox’s Megyn Kelly after she pressed him on insulting women.
His 2018 remark after the Parkland school shooting.
From his 2015 campaign announcement — “and nobody builds walls better than me.”
From the 2005 Access Hollywood hot-mic tape: “When you’re a star, they let you do it… grab ’em by the pussy.” He dismissed it as “locker room talk.”
His response to the deadly 2017 white-nationalist rally in Charlottesville.
His 2016 boast that he could stand in the middle of Fifth Avenue and shoot someone without losing voters.
The unfinished midnight tweet — “Despite the constant negative press covfefe” — that became a meme.
His March 2020 answer about the failed federal COVID-19 testing rollout.
The “test” was the Montreal Cognitive Assessment — a screen designed to catch early dementia, on which recalling five words is one of the easiest items. The president recounted acing it, over and over, as if it were an IQ exam and proof of genius, insisting doctors were “amazed” and challenging Joe Biden to try it: “I’ll bet you couldn’t answer the last five questions.” He and his campaign spun “person, woman, man, camera, TV” into a recurring taunt and even merchandise. He appears not to grasp what the test is for — treating a dementia screen he was given because of his age as a badge of superior intelligence.
“The first questions are very easy. The last questions are much more difficult, like a memory question. It’s, like, you’ll go: person, woman, man, camera, TV. So they say, “Could you repeat that?” So I said, “Yeah: person, woman, man, camera, TV.” “Oh, that’s very good. If you get it in order, you get extra points.” … They said, “That’s amazing. How did you do that?” I said, “Because I have a good memory.””
His 2024 debate claim about Haitian immigrants in Springfield, Ohio — which local officials said was false.
His promise from the 2016 Republican convention stage.
At an April 2020 pandemic briefing, moments after a government scientist described how disinfectants kill the virus on surfaces, the president mused on live television about getting it “by injection inside” the human body — and, separately, about bringing “a tremendous, very powerful light” inside a person. Poison-control lines reported a spike in calls; the next day he claimed he had been “sarcastic.” A president at the podium in a mass-casualty pandemic, free-associating medical advice that could kill anyone who took it — the anti-expert instinct with a body count.
“And then I see the disinfectant, where it knocks it out in a minute. One minute. And is there a way we can do something like that, by injection inside or almost a cleaning? Because you see it gets in the lungs and it does a tremendous number on the lungs, so it would be interesting to check that.”
He said this at the White House on February 27, 2020, as the coronavirus that would go on to kill more than a million Americans was beginning to spread, and he repeated versions of the promise dozens of times through 2020. Magical thinking offered in place of a plan — the anti-expert instinct applied to a pandemic.
“It’s going to disappear. One day — it’s like a miracle — it will disappear.”
His August 2020 response to the U.S. death toll, then about a thousand a day.
His January 2020 assurance about the new coronavirus.
His March 2020 argument against pandemic restrictions.
His March 2020 claim, which was not true.
His September 2020 minimizing of the virus’s danger to young people.
His October 2020 message after his own hospitalization with it.
His names for the coronavirus, which critics tied to a rise in anti-Asian attacks.
His fall-2020 assurance as cases climbed.
His February 2020 prediction that 15 U.S. cases would soon vanish.
His standing self-assessment — often “with the possible exception of Lincoln.”
His patriotism claim, usually aimed at a critic.
The core of the brand.
Applied to nearly every domain, qualifications optional.
His 2016 outsider pitch.
His standard claim of total expertise — taxes, drones, ISIS, the visa system, you name it.
His 2016 self-assessment — “or at least a very good temperament.”
His 2016 boast, of a piece with “a very stable genius.”
The poem he reads at rallies — about a woman who shelters a snake that then bites her — as a parable about immigrants.
His 2024 rally references to the fictional cannibal, invoked while attacking asylum seekers.
His 2024 riff weighing whether, on a sinking electric boat, he’d rather be electrocuted or eaten by a shark.
What he calls his own tangential rally style, insisting the digressions all tie together.
The stock character in his anecdotes — a big, strong man who chokes up and calls him “sir.”
His 2016 invitation for Russia to find Hillary Clinton’s deleted emails.
His repeated slip for the “origins” of the Russia probe.
At an April 2019 Republican dinner, the president — pantomiming the whir of the blades — claimed the noise from wind turbines causes cancer. The American Cancer Society said it knew of no credible evidence for any such link. A characteristic move: an invented health scare, delivered with total confidence, about a technology he simply dislikes.
“If you have a windmill anywhere near your house, congratulations, your house just went down 75 percent in value — and they say the noise causes cancer.”
His recurring claim to historic persecution.
His all-purpose claim of total expertise — drones, taxes, ISIS, windmills, the visa system.
His 2016 promise about the relentless winning ahead.
His standing description of the economy on his watch.
The manufacturing-revival promise, repeated at every rally.
His pitch for the 2017 tax law, whoever the cuts actually favored.
His real-time scoreboard — cited when up, ignored when down.
The figure he invokes to sell tariffs, tax cuts, and trade fights.
His 2018 tweet launching the tariff era.
His all-purpose explanation for economic grievance.
What he promises America is about to become.
His rally device for invoking crime or chaos somewhere else.
His all-purpose attribution for claims with no other source.
The slogan in full — the hat, the movement, the era.
His paean to trade taxes.
His 2018 self-label.
The foreign-policy companion to “Make America Great Again.”
His 2016 promise to wipe out the group — he said he knew more about it than the generals.
The strongman framing of his foreign policy.
His recurring demand that allies spend more, or else.
His admiring assessment of the Russian president.
His anti-interventionist refrain — delivered even as he expanded U.S. strikes.
His 2017 threat against North Korea.
How he described his bond with Kim Jong Un after their exchange of letters.
His signature label for the press — a phrase with a chilling pedigree.
His mash-up insult for mainstream outlets.
His standing epithet for the paper — whose subscriptions rose throughout.
His tag for the Post and its owner, Jeff Bezos.
The catch-all charge against any unflattering coverage.
His two slogans fused into his fullest attack on the press.
His framing of the opposition as an existential threat.
The restorationist call at the heart of his rallies.
His 2018 instruction to supporters to distrust the news and their own eyes.
His term for family-based legal immigration, which he moved to curtail.
The practice of releasing migrants pending hearings, which he vowed to end.
Jurisdictions that limit cooperation with federal immigration enforcement — a recurring target.
His 2015 call for “a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States,” later enacted as a travel ban.
The 2016 promise. Mexico did not pay for the wall.
The grievance at the center of his politics from 2015 onward.
His 2016 pitch to Black voters.
What he told the January 6 rioters in a video as they stormed the Capitol.
His cryptic 2017 remark to reporters during a photo with military leaders.
His 2016 self-description — “nobody knows debt better than me.”
His 2015 claim of superior military expertise.
From his 2015 campaign-launch speech.
His 2016 promise on interrogation.
His 2015 boast.
His 2017 claim — “with the exception of the late, great Abraham Lincoln.”
His 2016 written rebuttal to jokes about his hand size, which volunteered that “various other parts” were too.
His 2016 statement on the religion.
His 2015 remark — adding that he’d be “the last to go to war.”
His signature superlative construction — every crowd, deal, and disaster is unprecedented.
His 2023–24 line about immigrants, echoing language historians traced to fascist rhetoric.
His 2023 promise to supporters: “I am your warrior, I am your justice… I am your retribution.”
His 2022 call to allow “termination” of constitutional rules to overturn the 2020 election and reinstate him.
His May 2020 post about the protests after George Floyd’s murder.
His December 2020 tweet summoning supporters to Washington for January 6.
His message to the Proud Boys at the 2020 debate when asked to condemn them.
His warning to the January 6 crowd before they marched on the Capitol.
The “MAHA” slogan he adopted alongside RFK Jr.
His re-election tagline.
His enduring, false description of his 2020 loss.
His 2019 attack on four Democratic congresswomen of color, all but one U.S.-born.
His standing rebuttal whenever his treatment of women comes up.
His running brand for the network he attacks most.
The 2016 rally chant and central promise — the border wall Mexico was going to pay for.
The anti-establishment pledge to clean out Washington.
The press as an institution, recast as the enemy of the people.
The 2016 chant aimed at Hillary Clinton, later revived for other foes.
His standard claim of unprecedented scale — crowds, deals, disasters, numbers “never seen before.”
His framing for any charge, report, or verdict against him.
His catch-all for Democrats, the press, judges — anyone in opposition.
His promise to hire “the best people” — a phrase that aged poorly amid record turnover and indictments.
His foreign- and trade-policy slogan — a phrase with a loaded historical past he embraced anyway.
What he calls the United States whenever its justice system is aimed at him.
His label for the criminal cases against him, reframing prosecutions as attacks on his campaign.
The verbal tic he appends to claims that are often the hardest to believe.
The shadowy career-bureaucrat conspiracy he blames for thwarting him.
Any reporting he dislikes — the two words he did the most to popularize.
Washington’s entrenched establishment, which he vowed to drain and then staffed with insiders.
His framing for every investigation into him, from Mueller to the indictments.
His all-purpose superlative — a “beautiful” bill, a “beautiful” wall, “beautiful clean coal,” a “beautiful” letter from Kim Jong Un.
His intensifier, as in cutting taxes “bigly.” He later insisted he’d actually said “big league.”
His verdict on anything he opposes — a policy, a city, a person — usually a “total disaster.”
“Make America Great Again” — the hat, the movement, and the label for his most loyal supporters.
What any investigation, scandal, or inconvenient fact becomes — Russia, impeachment, COVID, climate.
His description of conduct under scrutiny — most famously the “perfect phone call” with Ukraine’s president.
“Republican In Name Only” — his brand for any Republican who crosses him.
The one-word kicker to a put-down, often standing alone as its own sentence. Sad!
Among his favorite superlatives — tremendous crowds, tremendous success, tremendous people.
Deployed for both praise and outrage, whichever the moment calls for.
His framing for any process that doesn’t go his way — courts, elections, the press.
The promised state of his presidency — “we’re going to win so much you’ll get tired of winning.”
“Huge,” as pronounced — a staple of his rally superlatives.
His way of sourcing a claim to no one in particular.
His preface to something usually well known, or untrue.
The emphatic tag he appends to assertions.
His favorite throat-clearer — often before something not especially frank.
His hedge on anything he won’t commit to.
His onomatopoeia for things happening fast and decisively.
His all-caps verdict on any investigation of him.
The Mueller-era refrain.
The insult, rendered for emphasis.
Elections, polls, trials — whatever doesn’t go his way.
His 2020 campaign cudgel.
His claim after the Mueller report, which did not exonerate him.
His term for congressional oversight.
His election-night 2020 demand — made where he was behind.
His all-purpose tag on unverified anecdotes.
His standard sign-off.