The Phoenix Trump rally started just like any other — and it ended the same way, too.

Vendors hawked signs with “lock her up” slogans that were quickly thrown into the waiting hands of sweaty, but passionate, Trump supporters. Protesters performed their frustrated dissent theatrics for the nauseatingly long line that wrapped around Phoenix Convention Center. The Trump supporters, to their credit, were an incredibly receptive audience for the angry demonstrators that flocked to the front doors and played along, almost as if the whole event were scripted.

Trumpites actually feed off of these protests. In the same way plants need the sun to photosynthesize, every Trump rally needs protesters to reinvigorate the ancient loins of the archaic masses.

As they made their way into the entrance of the vast PCC, the atmosphere began to grow sour with the smell of Sulphur. On-loan TSA agents confiscated the shiny “Hillary for Prison” signs that many in this patriotic community had bought before coming in. At first sight of the agents, a few of the Trumpites started to discuss various conspiracy theories they held about the U.S. government.

“We know the Pentagon had interstellar travel in 1973,” one man speculated. ”They’re thousands of years ahead of where we think they are.”

After passing through security, the crowds thinned and began to descend the long escalator to PCC Hall 6. As the escalator descended into the depths of the building, a lone Trump merchandise table materialized in the distance. The vast crowd surrounding the table was no problem for the angry Trump supporters who recently had their $7 signs confiscated by that cruel government agent at the TSA checkpoint.

Police and private security guards guided the flock of observant Trumpites into the waiting maws of the hall, where they were treated to the opening chorus of Credence Clearwater Revival’s classic song, “Born on the Bayou.”

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After disputes with music licensing early in the primary election, it seemed the only songs left to play at the rally were classic rock jams by the Rolling Stones and CCR. Their songs, with an occasional sprinkling of classical symphony, were played in a hypnotic loop for the rest of the rally and provided excellent background noise for the Trumpites to reflect on the cryptic movings of their great leader.

An all-star team of fallen Republicans introduced Trump, a “great guy” who will make America great again. His majesty’s warm-up speeches were heavy on anecdotes and light on policy, a necessity given that there is only one man who knows the inner workings of Trump’s mind.

The crowd nodded along with chants of “USA, USA” to voice their satisfaction with the jefe’s head executives.

As Trump took the stage, his supporters exploded in gleeful celebration. This enigma, this man of renown and gold-lined everything had taken time out of his busy schedule to speak to them.

What an honor.

It started with “the Don” announcing his intention to deliver a detailed policy speech, rather than his usual senseless ramblings. Some in the crowd began to leave. These folks weren’t interested in hearing how or why, they came for venomous rhetoric and bloodshed.

A shame they didn’t stay, if they had remained 10 minutes longer, they would have discovered that Trump’s “detailed” speech would again be quite light on actual details.

After a rather interesting but tired tirade of Republican immigration policies from Christmas past, Trump brought his “Angel mothers” on stage. Each of these mothers — as well as two fathers — had suffered the tragedy of their children being murdered by an illegal immigrant. Each one shuffled up to the microphone at Trump’s urging, told the story of their dead child and followed it with their promise to vote Trump. The crowd erupted in cheer at the end of each mother’s speech. The Trump supporters in the rally actually seemed delighted at the mother’s loss, knowing these dead children would help them prove their point about immigration.

As the rally concluded and Trump thanked the crowd, Mick Jagger fittingly crooned over the loudspeaker that “you can’t always get what you want.”

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