The covfefe problem: Why the joke is on us

Yesterday, the Internet lost its mind when Trump dropped his “covfefe” Tweet. But I’m wondering if we also lost our station; for, who will take us seriously when we criticise something legitimate?




The snake has officially eaten itself. For the many months since the Tangerine climbed to the top branch of the fruit tree, we’ve been good. Very good. The timbre of the drum, from both established media and the individual, beat a pure banger, gilded in platinum assurance, one which wound up on everyone’s playlist. Criticising Trump? I fking love this song! Cue:


However, that was until yesterday. We’ve since ruined it. In fact, I’m willing to unequivocally state that our ambitious hope to bully the bully out of the White House has failed. Failed because of “covfefe”.

It’s essentially responding to a mum joke, with “well your mum”, when everyone really knows that neither of them are heroin addicts. It’s a completely superfluous remark, and we’ve returned in kind, plastering it on a t-shirt.


What has followed is a rising, turgid wave of criticism crashing against the walls of the White House.

Pick your poison, for there are thousands more.

However, I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a chortling boom heard from within. Ours was not a criticism of equal rights, nor military spending or common decency; this was about covfefe, whatever the fuck that is. Most likely, it was a typo, or potentially it was something more sinister, an epic smokescreen from the Saruman of Twitter, dropping moronic nonsense incantations to cloak the path of the mountain we’re trying to traverse, the icy peaks of Mount Impeachment. Not five hours previous, the talk was about something far more important, Donald telling other world leaders to make his personal (unsecured) hotline bling. Ten hours later, it should be about him fossilising the Paris Agreement. Instead, we’re all about the covfefe. A mystery wrapped in a riddle, wrapped in an enigma, wrapped in abject stupidity. It’s like the Maltese Falcon, beyond the stuff of dreams. No-one knows what it is, or what it’s made out of, and that’s why people laid their lives down for it.

Spoiler alert, it was made out of covfefe.

What matters, is the credibility of the critic. It’s why we listened to David Stratton over the thoughts of that guy at work who told us “the new Martin Sarkozy filum was a bit shit.” In criticising something entirely pointless, we’ve reached our filthy nadir. The reason why anyone would listen to us went down the toilet with Trump’s telephone. It fair to state that he’s trapped us, dragging us down into the grubby mire of English with no definition, no purpose, where he eats, his turf. I ask you, what is the difference between him railing against the established media market as “fake” and us putting the boot into covfefe? Nothing, because neither of them exist.

“Oh,” you might say, “it’s just a bit of fun, all’s fair in love and etc,” but for a presidency – nay, nation ostensibly run on Twitter? Nah-uh.

Moving forward, how will we differentiate between legitimate criticism of the man hyperbolically (and accurately) described as “the most mocked man on Earth” and the whole “covfefe incident”? If every move is vociferously criticised regardless of merit, could he then do no wrong? A sort of backward legitimism of him playing fast and loose with the house’s money? “Fuck it, I’ll up my stupid bets until they cut me off”?



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