My cuntry’s president-elect cares a lot about women.
He understands that we matter and has been vocal about this for decades.
When I was a high school freshman, my cuntry’s president elect explained his gynethos to Esquire Magazine. He couched it in a comment about the media, saying, “You know, it doesn’t really matter what [they] write as long as you’ve got a young and beautiful piece of ass.”
A young and beautiful piece of ass serves as a shield.
According to Trump, a young and beautiful piece of ass inoculates him against the fourth estate, bloggers included.
I am always distracted by the idiom piece of ass. I imagine the piece as tessera, a squishy atom missing the other pieces of ass that would make it ass, ass whole again. I imagine these poor pieces, reduced to soft splinters, sighing. These individual bits of peach fuzz would very much like to return to the mother fruit.
The mother fruit’s anthem is the Whitney Houston version of I’m Every Woman sung in the shower.
The media reports that Trump’s Slovenian piece of ass du jour, Melania, won’t be moving to the White House. She shall remain in exile at Trump Towers, which seems suitable. She shall play the part of the princess withering in her turret, her Slavic pussy safe and ungrabbed while her husband cavorts, treating the planet as pussy.
It’s still hard for me to believe that Donald Trump has bitched, squawked, and frowned his way to commander-in-chafe-elect. A bloviating infinitely-chinned wannabe Leviathan, a version of him exists in a musty box at the bottom of my brain. If I open this box for you, and let you sift through my memories, you’ll find stuff like Lee Iaccoca and AIDS, things that loomed yugely and flashily in the 80s.
I wish Lee Iaccoca and AIDS were being inaugurated cum January.
We don’t get them. Instead, we get Cheeto machismo.
As a fascist (and let’s not play semantic games (are you semanticklish?), Trump’s a fascist, fascist, fascist, fascist, FASCIST) the orange one relies on machismo. About this, Umberto Eco writes, “Since both permanent war and heroism are difficult games to play, the Ur-Fascist transfers his will to power to sexual matters. This is the origin of machismo (which implies both disdain for women and intolerance and condemnation of nonstandard sexual habits, from chastity to homosexuality). Since even sex is a difficult game to play, the Ur-Fascist hero tends to play with weapons – doing so becomes an ersatz phallic exercise.”
I agree, somewhat, with Eco’s assessment but argue that Eco doesn’t take his appraisal of fascist feelings towards wombyn and queerdos to its appropriate nadir. Disdain is too light a word. Disdain is lite.
I argue that absolutely rape-able is a more appropriate phrase.
When I envision Trump and his white and off-white cronies convened in a white room, surrounded by the whitest carnations, snacking on snow, bloviating about our white future, I imagine them asking, “How can we rape it?”
Some rapes end in white stains.
Some rapes end in white stains on dead women.
I pray that we can deploy physical and imaginative feminism to combat the white and orange stains Trump threatens us with. We must imagine ourselves into a post-Trumpocalyptic future where a slutocracy helmed by cackling rape survivors and Second and Fecund Amendment loving BABES OF ALL AGES have deposed the scurvy-riddled kleptocrats. Our physical feminism will flash its teeth, fangs, tusks, and zippers. Our pussies will have evolved to protect us, mastodon ivories sprouting from either side of our fur as we clack clack clack. All the pieces of ass will be reunited in this world, tikkun olam turned tikkunt olam, and the color orange will fade from the visible light spectrum and glow where it belongs: in hell.