Today’s live broadcast is dedicated to my dear friend Roz Lawrence, because today is her birthday and she is the only person I know well who’s older than me. Roz, have a wonderful day!
In this episode, I fight off an attack orchid, and, assisted by my invisible friend Glen, contemplate names for bath houses in Muskoka, and read one of my “Facebook Life Events.”
In this life event I have a sensual experience involving a two-pound tub of President’s Choice Blue Ribbon Margarine without looking even remotely like Maria Schneider, mainly because it’s just my foot involved.
Otherwise my uncanny resemblence to Schneider has cost me many a movie role and the spokesperson gig for the Dairy Farmers of Canada. I’m just messin’ with your head, but— made ya look!
Please buy my book so I can stop eating used cat litter. The link follows at some point.
Gosh, I have to say, I look fucking fabulous in this one. I think it was the oatmeal scrub, which I’m repurposing as lunch with a handful of raisins I found in the pocket of my hoodie.
So here’s the link: » Buy my book on Amazon before David Sedaris gets jealous and accuses me of pulling focus with my surname and confusing his fans.
AWESOME FACTSX: You will notice that my surname is an exact anagram of “Sedaris,” if you write it backwards, change all of the vowels to “o” and “i,” add an extra “d” then ignore all the letters that don’t fit.
Every purchase goes 100% to supporting me in my dotage.
In the twenty-first century, truth is a personalized experience.
This is how it works: The title gives a tantalizing glimpse of the theme; the subtitle teases, or elaborates, or sells the title out by explaining it for you. Simple, right? Here’s a current example.
Title: “Triggered” Subtitle: “How the Left Thrives on Hate and Wants to Silence Us.“
A winner, isn’t it? And it’s his first book, too, the first he’s written and possibly even the first he’s read. So never think it’s too late for you, Murgatroyd McGraw.
Donald Frankenforehead Trump II, like many people, had a book inside him, but with most people that’s where it remains. Donald’s book was so deep inside him no ray of sunlight had ever penetrated its embryonic cloth covers, and now—Blessèd Judy, Mother of Liza—he’s filled his lungs to capacity, spread his knees, and, grunting and groaning with monumental effort, squatting like an Olympic weight-lifter ready for the clean-and-jerk, squeezed it out. Look, here comes the sequel—ker-PLOP!
Triggered signals that we’re a bunch of bored dads stuck watching “The Nutcracker” instead of The Game and missing target practice at the old folks’ home. And we’re about to endure the dance of the leftie snowflakes, that corps de ballet of over-sensitive types who get traumatized when we use good, old-fashioned traditional language, like nigger and faggot and kike and cripple, and deploy traditional attitudes like “I don’t care what you think you are, I’m not calling you SHE,” or “Adam and Eve, not Adam and Elton John!” or “Whites suffer racism, too.”
Them SJW’s are probably crying like lefty babies as they run off to their safe spaces, eh? Gee, are they triggered?
The subtitle with its explanation is supposed to encourage you but its very honesty poses a problem. From just the title, I might have thought Triggered was written by a super-sensitive individual who, because of his ability to feel the vibes, spent his days in a virtual torture chamber of empathy.
Except that it’s written by one of the Trump Frankenforehead children who was cooked up in a vat of virgin’s blood by a Dementor, so I was pretty sure that I had absolutely no interest in the book.
But from having seen the subtitle I know I have absolutely no interest in the book (although in fact without even reading it, even before it came ker-plopping out of Don, I have already read it a hundred times). So, thanks for the head’s up. If you are an angry white supremacist, or an assembly-line Frankenforehead son of Trump, looking to have crossover success and sell more books, take note.
That subtitle is formulaic and the formula goes: Throw out the most obnoxious, outrageously biased statement you can contrive, and present it as your premise (though it is not intended to be a verifiable statement of fact and its offensiveness is its gleeful goal); because as far as you’re concerned it’s true, and truth in the 21st century is a personalized, bespoke kind of thing.
Old-fashioned truth was dull and inefficient and did not necessarily reflect your beliefs. It was like those eastern bloc Polski Fiats everyone drove in Warsaw in 1979, or Henry Ford’s Model T, which he offered in any color you wanted as long as it was black.
Truth was one-size-fits-all. You had to cram yourself into, more often than not, an ill-fitting truth that didn’t suit you. And it was someone else’s truth, from years, maybe even centuries, ago! Crummy old hand-me-downs!
But now we have petite and plus-size, little white lies and great big whoppers. Now we have truth in all the flavors you would ever want: peppermint bullshit, cherry bullshit, tangerine bullshit and Bullshit Classic. And any color, as long as it’s beige.
Altogether, now: You’ll never go wrong with beige, my dear!
The Left, so this subtitle says, “thrives” on hate. Important point. Not just likes. Thriveson. Hate is our fuel, our multi-vitamin and our powdered whey protein drink. Hate is our Kryptonite, the fatal, nutrient we must nonetheless procure to power our hateful lefty energy.
Conservatives cancel your mom’s cancer medicines and fire your kids’ teachers. They fill the parks with homeless and kick the mentally ill onto the streets and legislate women’s bodies, and all of it for love—but progressives? We dare to raise the minimum wage!
Hate? Personally, you gotta know I’m counting to ten until someone, quite justifiably I might add, screams “Hitler!”
Conservatives don’t hold back. They stand up for what they value, and what they value is not caring for people but balancing budgets. Your mom will be dead, your unschooled kids fucktard stupid, but the deficit will be zero, the enterprise, free. Criminals will rot in hell. You won’t have to endure the tragic dress sense or the stench of the unhoused, and your fucktard stupid kids? Naturals as the new generation of conservatives!
Wants to Silence Us. “Us,” as in “Us and Them.” Donald Junior “knows” your country is being overwhelmed by illegal immigrants, your culture and values derided by elites and homosexuals, your wages stolen, taxed to pay for abortions and government programs for criminals and Muslims, your schools overrun by Marxists. Isn’t it awesome that the President’s son understands and is talking directly to you? Almost like he’s your buddy!
This book can be seen and purchased on Amazon, Twitter, Facebook and Instagram. It has its own dedicated web site. The publicist has made sure Don Junior appears on talk shows with millions of viewers. The New York Times wrote a snippy piece about it, but hey, that’s publicity. In fact, nearly every quality newspaper on the planet has given it a snippy review which is really publicity. This book is a bestseller.
So… this silencing thing? Trickier, apparently, than we thought.
Conservatives troll and shut down every progressive conversation with well-placed shouts of “PC!” “Snowflake!” “Social Justice Warrior!” “White Racist!” and mock anyone who wants to treat more people with more respect—but they’re silenced?
Only in my dreams.
I once Got an invitation to write a guest article for an Evangelical Christian blog. The owner was a minister, a more than adequate writer and a progressive guy, surprisingly outspoken in his support for social justice. I knew this because he would say things in his posts like, “Jesus wouldn’t have gotten mad at all those refugees from Central America in the caravan. He would have been loving to them, because they’re poor and displaced and feeling sad right now. That’s the Christian message, yo!”
This is in contrast to his followers, who would respond like, “These brown scumbags are just actors and serial killers and drug cartels funded by George Soros, and they’re gonna take away our guns and bring in their extended brown families and live offa welfare and steal our jobs! America is under attack! Resist the World Government! White people are dying out! Build The Wall Now!!”
The blog owner challenged me to provide the authentic voice and viewpoint of a gay man vis-a-vis Evangelical Christianity, which his main audience would probably not otherwise experience, seeing as they all live in white-only gated communities with matching front doors and identical window treatments, and have sharpshooters with assault rifles stationed around the perimeter of the moat who have been instructed to shoot to kill at the very moment they sense waspish humor or catch a whiff of Maria Callas singing “Vissi d’arte.”
I knew that most readers of his blog would shut down if they knew I was a Canadian gay male atheist. I decided I would ease them into my narrative using humor and various other shallow distractions to win them over. I’d mellow them into complacency, and manipulate them with my aw, shucks Canadian diffidence. Then I’d slap them hard in the face with my true identity as the Socialist Queen of Darkness and drop them down the well.
They would understand in a Damascus flash that gay guys and atheists and Canadians were actual humans with thoughts and feelings just like them, not abstractions cooked up by evil leftists for the sole purpose of vexing their limited brains with the evidence that some people, frankly, just don’t give a shit about Jesus, at least, not their version.
“How wrong I’ve been!This Canadian homosexual atheist liberal has finally convinced me that we’re all made in God’s image and deserving of respect. I’m gonna call up all the homeless shelters in Des Moines and see if my gay son is still alive, then invite him, a trannie, and maybe even a Democrat, to dinner! Y’all!”
It made sense at the time.
I wrote a great piece drawing on concepts of Zen Buddhism, poking gentle fun at my Canadian identity, and making a huge effort to come across as a bridge builder who was skeptical but non-threatening, even kind of adorable. I decided the title would be “Pivot Chords,” a metaphor from music that is about making a shift from one key (viewpoint) to another with finesse.
Finally I got the email saying I could check the published post. My title was now the subtitle and a new title, in bold letters at the very top of the page, read:
This Gay, Liberal, Atheist, Canadian’s Sermon on Grace and Compassion is the Best I’ve Heard in Awhile
In nearly two years the article has collected just six likes, about thirty-five shares and two comments, from a user base of nearly four thousand readers.
We live in a time when people have to be deceived before they’ll drive down the street that houses all those liberals they hate. They have to be jumped, hooded and thrown in the van before they’ll even let you suggest that a bunch of desperate mothers, fathers and children, a bedraggled, tired, poor, huddled mass of wretched refuse from whatever teeming shore isn’t just a bunch of actors paid by the Antichrist who’ve come to overthrow the most powerful nation on earth.
Note I didn’t say “greatest.”
How are you, by the way, at thisspiffing start to a new decade? I’m here, a scary clown popping out of his scary clown-box, to tell you that making Ukraine’s aid money contingent on its digging up dirt on the President’s political enemy is wrong, but not impeachable.
Are you getting this down? Grabbing her by the pussy is not impeachable, it’s—first base. Soliciting charitable donations then using them to buy sex with hookers or self-portraits or election campaigns? Nope. Not impeachable. You wanna know what’s impeachable?
Blowjobs are impeachable.
There’s more. Whatever the President of the United States does is OK, as long as he truly believes that his re-election is in the best interests of the nation. The POTUS can do anything he wants, at least, according to Vladimir Putin.
Sorry, did I say Putin? I meant Alan Dershowitz! But he didn’t get there first. Trump himself told us so. I can do anything I want. And, excuse me, bleeding hearts, he would hardly lie about something so important!
Twenty-twenty finds me in the position of a little boy wearing Buster Brown shoes and itchy wool shorts, topped with a crisp white shirt and a pre-tied bow tie, all clashing plaids and male camel toe and sausage thighs, ready to get pushed into the mud puddle by the ginger-haired bully, the boy with the freckles that everyone likes. What a little devil he is! He’ll go places!
It’s the face plant in the mud puddle, you see, the soiled perfection, that fosters one’s appreciation for all the nice new things, gifts (for you would never buy them for yourself) that may well not survive the day intact.
Not to worry. Start from the point of innocence; erase from your mind the script that has you in the final act looking like a refugee from PornHub’s “fetish” category, mud-wrestling barely-legal teens department, and put your trust in that pristine pinafore. Meanwhile, I struggle to answer my own question. I am :
recalcitrant \rih-KAL-suh-trunt\ adjective. 1 : obstinately defiant of authority or restraint. 2 a : difficult to manage or operate. b : not responsive to treatment. c : resistant.
I have been recalcitrant on Twitter towards the People’s Party of Canada (PPC), whose guiding light is one of those au courant racists, a Québecois who masks his authoritarian lust for pure laine behind the pieties of secularism and patrimonie, Maxime Bernier.
And I hope you don’t mind, but I’m going to be interrupting this article with a few bespoke Bernier jokes. Like:
Why did Maxime Bernier cross the road? To get to the — Oh, my God! OH MY GOD THAT EIGHTEEN WHEELER JUST RAN THE RED LIGHT!!
If populism is the soft cock of Canadian politics, Maxime has his dry, white lips clamped around it so tightly he may pass out from lack of oxygen. Allez-y! That’s the spirit, buddy! You’ll never get it up, but it’s undeniably amusing when you try.
The PPC tweets that the housing crisis is the result of immigration (that’s non-white immigration) run riot.
(Compare the Toronto version, “the Chinese are buying all the condos,” which is approaching the status of a standard friendly greeting on the local streets:
“Hey, Fred! The Chinese are buying all the condos!” “Fine, thanks, and how’s the wife and kids?”)
Because no rabbit hole presents itself but that I instantly picture myself burrowing down it, I tweet back that the housing crisis is caused not by immigration but by, oddly enough, a lack of housing, which could be solved by requiring developers to build affordable units in their cheap, flimsy luxury buildings, for example.
They tweet back that I lack imagination, that a trillion immigrants could appear at the borders and progressives like me would still want to throw money at the problem.
I tweet back that it’s equally [un]likely the white people could breed a trillion offspring and the housing crisis would still exist without a trillion living units, which, [sigh], could easily be built at no expense to the public and entail no tax increases except on units which owners don’t actually occupy (a tax which Vancouver has already implemented with success, and which Toronto City Council is considering).
What did Maxime Bernier say to the white immigrant? “I’m color-blind!” What did Maxime Bernier say to the non-white immigrant? “Housing crisse de Tabernac!”
What is it like, I wonder, being inside Maxime Bernier’s head? It ain’t the Midway at the Canadian National Exhibition, that’s for sure. No one’s lining up for the ride, “I hope I pass the height test! The “Bernier” does a full loop the loop and my friend Sandy told me she threw up her pink popcorn twice! It’s gonna be awesome!”
Bernier burns through Canadian values like a maniac training a flame thrower at a grove of maples. A typical arrogant loser and blustering, entitled white male, he projects sour resentment and outrage at the thought of benefits or income distribution or social justice. He’s a card-carrying denizen of the joyless, shadowy, victimized world of put-upon conservatism.
What does Bernier worry about? Not the plight of refugees, our international commitments or corporate taxes. He worries about—yes!— our deficit, even though our financial health, thanks for asking, is absolutely great. (US debt to GDP ratio: 4.6%. Canadian debt to GDP ratio: 0.39%).
He is, or pretends to be, in thrall to the idea that deficits are wrong, even if roads are pock-marked and bridges are falling down, and health care and public transport are so underfunded they barely work. Pull up your socks and tighten your belt!
The idea that, just like with your personal finances, you would look at your income, calculate the costs of a big-ticket item, work out the payments and decide to run a temporary deficit to invest in something that will create value and save money, this idea is supposed to be anathema to us. Deficits bad.
And it’s not up for debate. You might as well debate whether it’s OK to put dog food mixed with arsenic in the off-leash area in Allen Gardens. Of course it’s not! What kind of sick individual would run a deficit?
Five minutes’ research would tell you that deficits have no meaning except as expressed as a percentage of your Gross Domestic Product, your “income.” You’d discover that Keynesian economics advocates government spending when the economy needs stimulus. It’s considered a very good thing, it’s standard-issue economics, and has been for decades.
Conservatives can build whole fantasy scenarios on a false premise, because people are intellectually lazy.
Well, put the Chevy up on concrete blocks and bang my missus in a trailer, is that a fact?
What does Maxime Bernier’s breakfast cereal say? Crap, Wacko Populist!
Maxime Bernier throws nasty shade at Greta Thunberg, doomsaying sixteen-year-old climate activist. They make a synergistic pair. She’s the title, he’s the subtitle. He hates her youth, her daring, her plans to save the future and her being right. She’s grumpy, mouthy and, yes, recalcitrant. She gets under his skin.
He’s prissy, quasi-intellectual French, tighter than a Parisian’s pursed lips; she’s the spooky love-child of Anne of Green Gables and Ingmar Bergman. You can tell Bernier’s just itching to send her to bed without supper, then drive across town and spank his mistress.
Maxime and Greta! They were made to be a comedy duo, the Laurel and Hardy of the apocalypse, the featured floor show on Planet Titanic.
From slapstick to sleaze: Bernier, promoted to Foreign Affairs Minister in 2007 by Conservative PM Stephen Harper, has to tender his resignation after he leaves a classified dossier lying around his girlfriend’s place. For five months.
The dossier contains top-secret information about Canada’s plans in Afghanistan, Iraq and Syria. The petite amie, Julie Couillard, cavorts with Hell’s Angel’s and organized crime and people with job descriptions like drug enforcer, and was almost certainly lobbying Bernier on behalf of a realtor, Kevlar, Inc., to procure a lucrative government contract.
On a prurient note, the former model is also extremely well provided for in the boobs department and is not shy about reminding us, which cannot have anything to do with her revelation that Bernier is worried people think he’s gay.
We find out all of this when she publishes her tell-all memoir, entitled, and stop me if you’ve heard this one, “My Story.” This is a new level of dedication to bringing the federal government into disrepute.
Maxime must lack any sense of irony. He runs for office in the 2019 federal election promising to close down the supply management system, so hated by Trump, that ensures Canadian dairy farmers can get a fair price for their products.
His riding ofBeauce, Québec, consists mainly of—dairy farmers. And he loses his seat, the only seat the PPC held. This is a new definition of fucktard stupid.
Why does Maxime Bernier hate Gay Pride and Dairy Farmers? One’s too much homo, the other too little!
Bernier derides Greta Thunberg as “mentally unstable” and denies the overwhelming evidence about our climate emergency. He takes Greta very seriously. Everyone else understands that we support Greta Thunberg because she’s sweet and has no clout and anyway she’s just a teenaged girl.
Everyone, even corporations, even governments, supports Greta Thunberg, because she’s photogenic and does no harm, especially to the gas-guzzling agenda of big oil. You can pat Greta on the head, say “Isn’t she adorable! It’s great to see commitment from young people!” and feel fine because she’s not a threat to anything or anyone. She has no power.
It’s like giving a Girl Scout her knot-tying badge or her “most likeable gal-pal” certificate. She’s a protest march by Disney, where the cute kids pack up their signs and go home when daddy thinks that’s enough shenanigans for one day. Time for beddy-bye, Little Missy Hooligan!
Greta Thunberg is who you pay attention to so that there’s no room left for coverage of or sympathy towards First Nations people setting up the roadblock to halt the progress of a pipeline desecrating their sacred land.
Sacred land? How quaint! Riots about pipelines? Please, I’m eating dinner! Let’s see the cute little girl again! She’s the future, she’s dessert!
How many Quebecois dairy farmers does it take to change a light bulb? Just one. He grips the light bulb with both hands while Maxime Bernier spins him around on his dick!
We want to consume Greta, because she’s a tasty, frothy cream puff of news. The First Nations people are indigestible: ornery, angry, outraged, not nice. They’re not our friends and they’ve experienced first-hand how we treat children.
We call out the Mounties for them. The protestors cover their faces, they throw rocks; they don’t hold out their hands in forgiveness, and we don’t pat them on the head. Guns, tear gas. They’re dangerous because they insist on their power and their absolute right to be where they are. .
Why is Maxime Bernier jealous of Greta Thunberg? She travels the world on a yacht, but all his ships sink!
The PPC accuses me of not wanting a conversation. And they’re right. I don’t. I want them to line up and bend over so I can shove a People’s Party of Canada lawn sign up their wazoos, pointy end first—to approximately the same place where Donald Frankenforehead’s book resided— then burn the lot of them at the stake.
This seems like such a simple, yet obvious, demand.
And since the remaining members of the PPC would fit into an old-style Volkswagen, I could take care of it in an afternoon and still finish in time to flash some skin on Chaturbate for a couple of hours.
Yeah, that’s right. Chaturbate. I call my room
This Gay, Liberal, Atheist, Canadian’s Ass is the Best You’ve Seen On A Senior Citizen in Awhile.
Nothing is wasted when you’re a writer. Nothing.
Now, pour the little lady a glass of Chardonnay and get yourself impeached.
Grandkids! Just one look at me in my leather gladiator boots and chain mail jockstrap as Grand Vizier of Toronto Pride should tell you once and for all how likely that is!
Grand Vizier! One look at me smiling indulgently at my grandkids should…etc. etc.
I must say, I’m looking fabulous tonight, no doubt because of the vitamins my roomie gave me, marked “Seniors’ Blend! 65+”, which is mainly zinc so your prostate doesn’t prolapse out of your urethra, or something.
Gender disappears after 60, so perhaps my uterus will prolapse instead, who knows?
I read the piece from my book called “House Rules” and if you’ve ever had a roommate, you may recognize it.
Happy New Year, let’s kick the scrawny ass of 2019 all the way down the beach and cha-cha on the six-inch heels of 2020!
Once again, anyone but a woman is the secret rallying cry for the new generation of pious progressives
If there’s one GAME i love TO PLAY, it’s Pretending I’m American. Then I wake up with a little scream of relief, like you do in those dreams where you’re skydiving, your parachute refuses to open and you hit the ground, only to find you’ve just rolled over onto your pain au chocolat and scalded yourself with the café au lait. A little witch hazel, just rub it into the sore bits, you’ll be fine. No harm done.
It’s that delicious feeling of having escaped, barely, with your life and soul intact. It’s why we go on rollercoasters, it’s why we take the ski lift to the top of some saggy-assed hillock in Muskoka that your grandmother could walk to the top of in an afternoon and be back in time to bake tea biscuits by five PM. It’s why we make individual soufflés —with those egg whites that are still festering at the back of the fridge—for dinner parties of eight, including your boss and his wife.
You are hoping to get the thrills of the real-life challenges of jumping from planes, conquering Everest or owning your own bistro in Manhattan, but without the real-life disheartening and possibly fatal outcomes that would inevitably attend in those cases.
Take Bernie Sanders. Please. That’s a thrill I’m happy to keep vicarious. I’m sick to the point of projectile vomiting of seeing Bernie supporters, the pious, self-appointed spokespersons for, apparently, all progressives, foaming at the mouth at the mention of anyone but Bernie.
You know what galls me the most? While Trump is a proud, self-proclaimed misogynist, Bernie supporters are closet cases, which may make them just as dangerous as The Great Mouth Breather.
I hadn’t even finished counting to ten before I read on Twitter that Elizabeth Warren should “step down and allow the obvious contender, Bernie Sanders” to take up the banner of progressive policy—for it was Warren who was spoiling his chances. The idea that Bernie might step down to give Warren the playing field, now, that was heresy.
A condescending tweet from one young thing assured me that Warren had “plagiarized” Bernie’s platform (as if by virtue of being a white male Sanders has undisputed official ownership of social democracy’s style guide) and that this fearless woman, who in video after YouTube video is seen mercilessly cutting down the entitled men of Wall Street, is a “corporate lackey;” the most preposterous fabrication since Hillary started running that child-sex brothel from the basement of the basement-less pizza parlour.
Anything but admit what is so transparently the case: Anyone but a woman. You’d rather have querulous old Bernie Sanders, who I like to imagine in sandals and socks eating a tuna salad sandwich as he addresses the UN, than Liz Warren, who has the gravitas and the gumption to confront corporate CEO’s, those captains of finance who stammered and sweated in the glare of her gimlet eye like high school punks caught scrawling graffiti in the bathroom and sent to the principal’s office. Corporate lackey? Are you kidding me?
Warren’s detractors would rather assert that she’s a “closet Republican” because, by her own admission, she was a Republican in her youth before she delved into the topic of credit card debt and was appalled by what she found, by how the system was rigged against consumers.
Yes, she became a progressive after examining the facts. That doesn’t mean she’s a “closet Republican.” That means she’s smart. There’s no one more zealous than a convert, after all.
Welcome to the new misogyny, in which any female who dares to question St. Bernie’s right of primogeniture to carry the US into a future of Swedish social democracy and Marimekko bed linens must be stopped, pilloried and Hillary’d, whatever mud-throwing it takes.
You think the Sanders supporters who can attempt to eliminate Elizabeth Warren with absurd ad hominem attacks actually give a shit about women’s rights? They’re misogynists. They claim to base their attacks on social justice, on economics, but they’re lying to themselves and to you. They’re like the white people who think Trump was elected because of the falling fortunes of the working- and middle-class, and can’t see that racism, rage at your having had a black president, was the actual impetus for installing a blathering buffoon in the world’s most important office, because he’s a white buffoon.
I get it, kids. It’s hard to think of your own country as racist, and it’s equally hard to think of yourself as misogynist, but when you can look at Warren, then look at Sanders, and think Sanders is the electable choice, you have a problem, brothers and sisters.
Trump, naturally, has been his usual moronically uninhibited self when it comes to trash-talking Warren. “She had to open her fresh mouth,” he says, in a blatant attempt to reduce her to a mouthy girl-child, like a taller, more wrinkly version of Greta Thunberg. It’s a knee-jerk reaction of threatened males from Albania to Zanzibar, but “fresh mouth” ?
I hadn’t heard that phrase since about 1965, when the last of my great-aunts, Victorian women all, passed away. If it weren’t Trump voicing the opinion there might even be a certain retro charm to this; but Trump it is, god help us, and dreams of banana republics dance in our heads, including a smiling Mike Pence, newly-appointed Minister of Love, assuring us that the rounding up of dissidents is gonna hurt me more than it hurts you.
From “Shut the bitch up,” the quintessential meme of Sanders supporters, to “She had to open her fresh mouth,” it’s obvious that women still pay the price for daring to be seen and heard.
What is it about Bernie and his indisputably earnest but lack-lustre resume that excites such scarily uncritical loyalty? Is it the stirring into consciousness of Jungian archetypes? Is he just Universal Grandad, all rosy apple-cheeked sweetness with just the right touch of cranky querulousness, that you help up from the pavement after he’s slipped on the ice?
Is it reparation for some kind of millennial collective guilt from snipping “OK, Boomer!” once too often at the Thanksgiving dinner table, or from not saying “thank you” when you’d made the dutiful visit to the Sunset Lodge and he’d stuff a quarter into your hand, “don’t let your mother see!” And, shame on shame, you rolled your eyes, didn’t you?
Well, Murgatroyd McGraw, now you must pay. Universal Grandad for President! It’s so much better than a pair of socks or wrap-around sunglasses or a new hemorrhoid cushion. He’s gonna love it!
Some Americans still see Trump as a dumb doofus, a bumbling anomaly. Yeah. That’s what you thought in 2016. Wake up, snowflakes; wipe those smiles off your faces, Pollyannas! Now that Trump has officially made the US into a nation of men, not laws, and has explicitly put himself above your Constitution, maybe it’s time to take him deadly seriously.
Trump has ignored subpoenas. If you or I did that, we’d be picked up faster than a dropped corn chip under the five-second rule. A subpoena from Congress or from a court of law is equivalent to an order from a sovereign. That’s what we get in Canada: “Her Majesty commands you to appear…” That’s the rule of law, and once you have the guy in charge ignoring the rule of law, literally anything could happen.
The Marines could come in and shut down Congress. He could arrest liberals, or anyone who’s seen his tax return, or The Whistleblower. Don’t you get this?
Thank god for Elizabeth, also Hillary, also Nancy, may their fresh female mouths be ever opened. May they be as “shrill” and “strident” as a pack of bloodhounds on the scent. You have a constitutional crisis, if you hadn’t noticed, because your president has put himself above the law, explicitly.
And without the fierce pulling-together of uppity women, you may be approaching the time when a comment like “fresh mouth” is followed by a 3AM knock on your door.