There are a host of competing theories about the nature of Donald Trump, depending on who you ask: that he is a bumbling, senile nutsack who fell ass-first into the most powerful job on the planet; that he is a career snake-oil salesman who has developed a secondary skill set as master propagandist; that he is a Russian puppet who is the cumulation of decades of foreign intrigue; that he is a malicious, power-hungry fascist contemptuous of the very nature of democracy. Perhaps one of these is most correct, or perhaps several of them are, but the one thread that unites them is that he is a small man.
He is petty, he is small, he is angry, he is vituperative and contemptuous, and as yesterday’s free-wheeling descent into madness masquerading as a press conference proved, he is needy. He wants nothing more than to be loved. He is scared right now, and so this weekend he is running back to the one place he feels understood: standing in the center of a cauldron of nihilists, racists, and disaffected laborers who mistakenly believe he is their voice. He is the voice of only himself, and that is because he is a small man.
There is an entire subreddit devoted to visual manifestations of this smallness. Here is a small Trump:
Here he is with Dad: