When a shooting was a shooting ...

There was a time, not long ago, when we believed what we saw.

The attempted shooting of Gerald Ford, circa 1975

So, last night, someone allegedly tried shooting Donald Trump at the White House Correspondents’ Dinner. There were cops and an arrest and reports and …

Plenty of people don’t believe it.

P-l-e-n-t-y of people.

I, for the record, am not one of them. To be honest, I’ve just never been much of a conspiracy theorist. I believe Kennedy was killed by Lee Harvey Oswald and James Earl Ray took out Martin Luther King. I think the Challenger exploded because of low temperatures and I do not buy that George W. Bush knew about 9.11 ahead of time. I don’t subscribe to spiders causing chicken pox, old milk inducing pregnancy or horses being able to read our thoughts. I have never seen a ghost or a spaceship. I wish my dad were on a cloud in heaven with Tupac, Carol Channing and Len Bias, but I don’t accept it as a real possibility.

That said …

Thanks to Donald Trump and the endless, ceaseless, merciless string of lies he and his goons spew upon the American populace, I do understand why so many look at events like last night and think, “Hmm.” I mean, here’s a president who cannot tell the truth and also cannot stand to be anything but worshiped and loved. Here’s a president whose approval ratings are sinking toward the v-e-r-y low 30s; a president stuck in a war he created and cannot leave. Here is a man born and raised and nurtured upon the art of stagecraft and angles. Fake gold. High platforms. Jets soaring above. Envelopes stuffed with blank pages. A created publicist named John Barron. Look over there! On and on. So is it that crazy to believe—desperate for some type of boost—he somehow cobbled together a bullshit “assassination attempt”?

I don’t buy it.

I don’t.

That said …

I’ve stopped believing anything this man says. And I don’t say that facetiously. I literally find myself buying nothing that leaves the lips of Trump, J.D. Vance, Karoline Leavitt and Co. Everything is the biggest. The grandest. The greatest. The war is over. And it’s not a war. And America is hotter than ever. And the ballroom is going to be amazing! Real marble! From Italy! At an unbelievable price! You’ll love it! We need it! Trump! Trump! Trump!

Weirdly, I’m still uncertain about Pennsylvania two years ago. I am. I can’t help it. It’s the first conspiracy I actually consider to be possible, primarily for one primary reason: Who is shot—via bullet—in the ear, and covers it with gauze for 48 hours? Who is shot—via bullet—in the ear, and has blood everywhere, but literally no scarring?

And I hate this about myself, and about America. I don’t want to be this person. I want to accept folks at their word. I want to believe in the decency of humanity. I want my president to be honest and forthright and at least somewhat tethered to truth.

Look, I believe there was a shooter last night in Washington.

I do.

But how does an attempted assassin simply entered the Washington Hilton armed with a 12-gauge shotgun, a .38 semi-automatic pistol and multiple knives?

How does this sort of thing happen?

Did it happen at all?

Sigh.