How can our media mandarins, who bang on about Trump, miss the similarity between the scenes at Capitol Hill and Sinn Féin triumphalism after the general election?
Like Trump, Sinn Féin carried on as if the election had been stolen from them.
Like Trump, they publicly vented their contempt for the institutions of their country - who can forget Davy Cullinane at the RDS deriding the 'Free State' and shouting "up the RA"?
Like Trump, they abused social media to undermine their political opponents as in the Twitter hashtag #NotMyTaoiseach.
Like Trump, Mary Lou McDonald called for nationwide rallies to force SF into government.
Five months after the election, SF TD Thomas Gould, still in Trumpian denial, tweeted: "Mary Lou McDonald is my Taoiseach."
It was not until June that Mary Lou McDonald publicly conceded Sinn Féin had no entitlement to be in government.
Sinn Féin's arrogance was assisted by soft media commentary which failed to call out its Trumpian pretensions.
Before the election, two influential commentators, David McWilliams and Fintan O'Toole, told us we should bring SF into government. That can be excused as naivete.
But what is their excuse for not excoriating Sinn Féin after the election and calling it out for its mass rallies and its subversive attitude to the State?
They also failed to show that Trump and Sinn Féin share the same ideological root: nationalism.
I believe with every bone in my body that nationalism, American or Irish, is always toxic because, as Orwell pointed out, nationalism is about hating some other country whereas patriotism is about loving your own.
Short of invaders landing on our shores there is never an excuse for toxic nationalism - and even then patriotism is enough.
Toxic nationalism creates taboos that are also toxic. Let me take just two. The taboo about closing the Border and the taboo about telling the truth about Martin McGuinness.
Keeping the Border open was made an expedient sacred cow to coerce the British during Brexit.
But now that sacred cow is spreading the mad cow disease called Covid.
During December, the rate of cases in Northern Ireland was four times that of the Republic.
Naturally, this led to seepage and a concentration of Covid cases in Border counties Donegal, Cavan, Monaghan and Louth.
There is also strong anecdotal evidence of hundreds of Northern Ireland-registered cars in the car parks around Dublin city during December.
But there is no excuse for not closing the Border since it was revealed one in 30 people in London had the new deadly variant.
Now anyone travelling to Ireland from Britain - but not from Northern Ireland - will be required to produce a PCR test showing they are clear of Covid, along with other stringent measures. But what is the point of any of these if people can fly from London to Belfast and cross the Border to the Republic?
Is it really worth risking our lives rather than break a nationalist taboo by closing the Border temporarily?
The same nationalist taboo prevents us telling the truth about Martin McGuinness. Last September, RTÉ screened a soft film biography. Last Wednesday, only four months later, TG4 showed an even softer one.
Martin McGuinness was produced and directed by Sonia Nic Giolla Easbuig, commissioned by TG4 with support from the BAI and the Irish Language Broadcast fund.
In 1998, Sonia Nic Giolla Easbuig made a documentary, I gCillin an Bhais, telling the story of the hunger strikes at Long Kesh. She got a rave preview from An Phoblacht.
Three points about her Martin McGuinness. First, the entire 660-word blurb promoting the show did not mention the IRA once.
Second, IRA victims got under five minutes in the 87-minute McGuinness documentary.
Finally, any film which shows the evolution of McGuinness from terrorist to peacemaker must, for balance, give more space to the dark parts that filled most of his life rather than his late rush to peace when the IRA, riddled with informers, ran out of road.
This film reversed that necessary balance. McGuinness was answerable for three local Derry murders on his watch: Joanne Mathers, a census taker in April 1981; Frank Hegarty, an informer whose body was dumped on a road in May 1986; and Patsy Gillespie, blown to bits by a proxy bomb in October 1990.
Thanks to a strong contribution by Bríd Rodgers of the SDLP, the murder of Patsy Gillespie was at least marked with some respect.
But the earlier murders of Mathers and Hegarty were not mentioned at all. The failure to deal with the murder of Frank Hegarty stood out as Bishop Edward Daly had pointed the finger at McGuinness according to a Department of Foreign Affairs report, January 1987.
The bishop said that normally McGuinness "didn't get his hands dirty" but had "run out of henchmen" in Derry.
The bishop added that the Frank Hegarty murder would make McGuinness "vulnerable if he were to come under media scrutiny".
The film avoided any such scrutiny. No mention of the Hegarty family's testimony that McGuinness had lured him back to Derry, assuring his mother Rose he would be safe.
When he came back he was shot in the head, his eyes taped in case the bullet blew them out, which might disgust even hardened IRA supporters. Which I doubt.
With two of the three damning Derry murders not mentioned and less than five minutes allotted to victims, what filled the 82 minutes?
Mostly a succession of sentimental contributors, feathering their peace processor nests.
Billy Clinton, moist eyed, told us Martin could talk an owl from the trees - which might explain his success with Frank Hegarty's poor mother. Jonathan Powell talked of pizza and skateboards. Not a mention of murder.
Dealing with the 2011 presidential campaign, Aengus Ó Snodaigh whined about the media dragging the IRA up again. The cheek of the media.
The voice-over to the 40 seconds where David Kelly, son of IRA victim Patrick Kelly, confronted McGuinness, told us weirdly: "The victims have never allowed Martin forget his IRA background." These pesky resurrected victims!
Consider the use of the creepy word "incident" to describe Patsy Gillespie's body being shredded in the following voice-over extract.
"In October 1990, Patsy Gillespie was taken from his house in Shantallow in Derry. The resulting incident followed Martin throughout his life because Patsy's wife Kathleen pointed the finger of blame at Martin." Those pesky victims again, pointing at poor Martin because of an "incident".
Gearóid Ó h'Eára, former mayor of Derry, told us: "It wasn't easy for him to shake hands" with the Queen and Ian Paisley. Nothing about the problem of them having to shake McGuinness's hand.
Indeed, I would have problems shaking the hand of anyone in TG4 who approved this syrupy film hagiography, which marginalised Martin McGuinness's victims and left relatives sick at heart.