GUILTY ON ALL 5 CHARGES, ROUTH TRIED TO STAB HIMSELF IN THE NECK IN COURT. Unfortunately, he failed.
THE EXTREME MISFIT – THERE ARE A LOT OF DANGEROUS PEOPLE LIKE HIM…perhaps thousands.
Ryan Routh, the would-be Trump assassin, was a man who seemed to exist on the jagged edges of society, a perennial misfit whose life was a patchwork of grandiose schemes and chaotic failures. His wiry frame, perpetually hunched as if carrying the weight of his own delusions, moved through the world with a restless, almost feral energy.
His eyes, sunken and darting, betrayed a mind that never settled, always chasing some half-formed vision of glory or infamy. Routh was a drifter in both geography and purpose—Hawaii, North Carolina, Ukraine—each place just another stage for his erratic performance.
He fancied himself a revolutionary, a savior of causes he barely understood, scribbling manifestos that read like fever dreams, incoherent yet brimming with self-righteous fury. His hands, calloused from odd jobs and obsessive tinkering, once clutched a rifle aimed at power, a clumsy bid for history that crumbled into farce.
Like Lee Harvey Oswald before him, the ultimate misfit, he was neither mastermind nor martyr—just a man too broken to fit anywhere, leaving a trail of baffled acquaintances and abandoned ideals.
In the courtroom, his daughter, Baby Routh, as THE SIMPLEON STAR dubbed her, was a stark contrast—a young woman caught in the undertow of her father’s wreckage. Her face, pale and streaked with tears, was a map of anguish as she sat through the trial, her small frame trembling under the weight of the verdict.
When the word “guilty” sliced through the air, she erupted, storming out in a cascade of sobs, her footsteps echoing like a wounded animal’s retreat.
Moments later, Routh himself, wild-eyed and cornered, seized a pencil from the defense table and drove it toward his neck—a desperate, theatrical stab at escape or redemption, thwarted by guards who wrestled him down. Baby Routh, outside, heard the chaos through the walls, her grief now laced with the fresh horror of her father’s unraveling. She was left to carry the name, the shame, and the shattered pieces of a bond that could never make sense of the man who called himself her father.
