You may be wondering.
I’ve been lying in my bathtub since, you know—“the election”—my chin wobbling like my mother’s infamous tomato aspic from the effort of holding back my wild, existential cry of “What The Fuck, dude!?“.
For a little variety I count the missing chunks in the tile grouting, while I figure out what necessities I’ll take to the special Alaskan holiday camp for homosexuals when Pence sends the order.
So far I’ve come up with:
two pink toothbrushes (one of them manual in case it’s hard to find batteries);
flap-in-the-back longjohns pinned to “open”;
Canada Goose parka, whose astronomical cost will force me to obtain an undercover coatcheck job at The Black Eagle and nab one while its naked owner is firmly strapped to the St. Andrew’s Cross;
the fluorescent stuff your manservant puts on your nose in Gstaad before you frappez la piste;
my own bag of rocks (in case the ones they provide for hacking with a pickaxe “aren’t doing it for me”); and
DVD Special Extras Editions of “Now, Voyager” and “All About Eve” (which latter title always makes me want to scream, in desperate parody of those rabid christians who oppose equal marriage: “They made ‘All About EVE’, not ‘All About STEVE’ !!).
So you see, though you may think I’m spending my time lolling like a catamite on black satin sheets, peeling grapes and licking Reddi-Whip off the butt-cracks of random 20-year-old skateboarders, I am, in fact, limp as a Cossack after a hard day’s rape and pillage. All this AND a case of severe, possibly terminal, President Trump Stress Disorder.
PTSD is a parlous state manifesting as reflexive mouse-clicking while asleep, nicotine overdose and an attention span stretched so wafer-thin that I’ve had to several times during my breakfast revisit the instructions on the Kellog’s Frosted Flakes box (for some reason I keep bungling Step 6: “Enjoy!”).
This lifetime-benefits-worthy level of election-induced disability is completely related to my self-imposed burden of riffing on the greatest show on earth, the recent coronation of Citizen Don. Even more than Obama, he proved that, in America, anyone—and believe me when I say, anyone—can make their American Dreams come hideously true.
But The Donald, with his secret, award-winning recipe of a thin coating of élite enclosing a filled-with-nuts Trump-lump of pure white trash, topped that heap without any of that fancy book-larnin’ and puttin’ on airs, don’t ya know; and, it should by now go without saying, definitely without flaunting any unpatriotic skin tones.
Real ‘Murcans, as it turns out, like a bit of authenticity with their despots. Not grace under pressure, but pressure sans grace, sans eyes, sans teeth, sans everything. President O, are you taking notes? Really, some of my best friends are Hahvad grads, but did you hafta be so goldarned – well, <whisper> BLACK about it? Property values, dude, property values!
And dull!? OMFG!! The country that invented serial killing then brainstormed it into production-line hamburger franchises was hardly in the mood for Percy Faith and his hundred and one strings; this high-minded mellow; this,“let’s take it slow, ACA, baby, and if I said you have a beautiful body politic would you hold it against me?” No tantrums, no marital problems, no scandals —
Basically, Barry: Who the fuck do you think you are?
You have patience alright, my fine dusky-feathered friend, patience in spades; and I’m very sorry about the crude pun, but hey. Come February, 2017, you could probably find a job watching glaciers melt.
I hear there’s positions opening up as we speak.
Moving right along, allow me to throw off this lead apron of despair that god-the-invisible-dentist has fastened around my neck as casually as Luigi at the Spaghetti Factory used to fasten the red and white bib so you shouldn’t get sauce on your tie. And while I’m lightening the tone, may I say, to the accompaniment of the little smooching noises I make into my webcam, I’m just LOVIN’ ME some new header (see above. Where did you think the header was? Are you a Luddite? I mean, seriously, dude).
I’ll be honest—and you may want to sit down for this bit after getting your impressionable youngsters out of earshot—it’s a “me” thing. Ya know??! I like it because it’s created by me, which makes it a macaroni pic par excellence, and I like it because it’s all portraits of me at various points in my life, including the day I invented “male camel toe”, when I was five.
Oh yeah, baby. I had ambition back then.
I like my header because Hillary’s in it, gallivanting in rainbow pantsuits across my gaunt, vicarious election-losertard face. How many millions of people can say that?
Do I come across as shallow?
Please, please don’t despair. Just because I’m my own schizoid fan club, including the mousey, horn-rimmed secretary, a phone-it-in role for Patricia Hitchcock, AND the sultry, wisecracking, torpedo-breasted head of the social committee, a turn that simply begs for the ministrations of Lauren Bacall – that doesn’t mean I don’t, you know. TOTALLY CRAVE your clicking my “Like” button.
No, you can’t go to Breitbart just yet, honey. Settle down, OK?
Don’t think for one second that your opinion doesn’t matter, because, dudes, since you asked, and I’m only going to say this once:
« I’m the neediest friggin’ cocksucker from here to Des Moines. »
No question. I’m so fucking needy, it’s insane. I’m like the baby bird in the nest, cheep cheep! opening my naked maw for the slimy, wiggling worms of your validation; I’m your golden lab puppy whining for food and water, yapping its promise of total, abject love from the cold basement room;
I’m Richard Burton tied to the bedpost while Liz sits at her dressing table, removes her bra, puts scarlet lipstick on her nipples:-
That’s how much your opinion matters to me; in fact, this may be the ONE TIME today, in your life even, when your opinion matters so much to someone. Or at all!
Think about that, my collective Virginia. Think about that really hard. But only for a short period of time, because the implications – well.
It doesn’t bear thinking about, does it? Unless you make sure you think with extreme, concentrated effort, and keep it, like, under twenty or maybe thirty seconds, tops. That could work.
Alrighty? So, just to make absolutely nail-it-to-the-floor certain we’re all on the same page, my final instructions are: Think REALLY hard for a SHORT time about your opinion mattering. To me. OK? Let’s see how well you get on.
Frankly, with most of you we’re happy if we can hold a mirror to your lips and see some fogging, so the bar is, I admit, extremely low. But I’m reasonably confident about the “Like” button thing being within your grasp. At least for some of you.
I feel, and don’t ask me how, that at this point one or two of the more-or-less uncoachable ones amongst you may be wondering: Is David being bossy ? Is David, like, a bossy person?
PUH-LLLLEASE! Let me set the record straight once again. Since you asked.
I am not bossy. I am goal-oriented. Like, MY goals for YOU. OK?
Now, CLICK, dammit.