When Trump says "frankly" –– which is to say every time he begins a sentence –– he sometimes speaks "frankly" and other times he speaks a terrible untruth.
Like when he'd read the autocue and suddenly wake up from his psychic haze, his eternal demonic drowse that he has infected us all with, to remark, usually with some surprise, "That's really actually true, I actually agree with that."
Trump's so used to saying things he doesn't actually believe that he has to comment when he says something he actually thinks is true.
What I mean is he expects to lie when he speaks.
Sunday, July 14, 2019
Saturday, January 26, 2019
"One or Two Things I Know About Trump."
1. What with the Government shutdown and the latest Russia revelations, nobody speaks much anymore about Stormy Daniels, but I have intended to make this observation since before Christmas and I must be allowed:
CNN got into the habit of calling Stormy Daniels a "porn star" while they called Karen McDougall a "Playmate". They are always very precise about the fine differentiation. Unfair.
There that's it.
2. Trump was talking about the vaporous mystery atop his fat, bumpy head. (Always a bad idea to draw attention to it.) He defended it, saying that it was his "own hair." Sophistry!
I thought about this and eventually decided he said it –– on the recommendation of his lawyers and after a subsequent, intimate and lengthy bull session with Alan Dershowitz at Mar-a-Lago –– so that he could not technically be caught perjuring himself. It is in fact his own hair –– but it is hair that actually sprung from the back of his head, that abundant and considerable source, his mullet hair, which was cut off and then grafted to the top of his head. So do you see, when he says it is his own hair, he is not actually lying. It just happens that it was moved from one place to another and reapplied.
Like the House of the Seven Gables in Salem, Mass.
Or London Bridge.
3. A couple of times now, at the height of a spirited rant in the car for the unfortunate audience of my wife, I have looked down mid-rant and seen with unfeigned disgust that I am actually making the trademark circles between my thumbs and forefingers, popularized by none other than the leader of the Western World. I looked on in candid horror –– recoiled in shame now –– tried to throw my hands away from me like alien and remote objectoids.
I then calmed down and returned to my indefatigable habit of fucking analysing everything that comes along. I said to my wife, "Imagine, if I'm doing that, making Trump shapes with my fingers, how many others of Trump's worst habits have been subconsciously absorbed and assimilated by all the world. We watch this guy every day, in the morning and again at night, and take it all in hypnotically. His vocabulary, his psychology, what he has in lieu of a moral philosophy. Word begets Trump, and Trump is virus."
4. They always say that the only person Trump doesn't criticise is Putin. It's a banality, a saw. Then inevitably it is asked, "What's he got on Trump?" What they don't say, but should, is that there is another person Trump doesn't ever criticise –– and it's incredible –– it is Kushner. Now what's he got on Trump? What awful things has Ivanka told him I wonder?
5. Roger Stone was on Chris Cuomo last night, fresh from a night in the Tombs. Chris couldn't stop marveling that he had this guest. "He's nuts to be here, dunno why his lawyers okayed it, in fact I dunno why his lawyers haven't got him sedated in a cabin off Lake Tahoe, handcuffed to a metal bedframe, but WTF it's all gravy. Let's go."
There was now an image of Roger Stone in a box in the top left of the screen. For a moment it seemed like it was a still photograph, but then it blinked. Creepy. Like the old portrait in the haunted house in every episode of Scooby Doo ever. The eyes moved. It blinked repeatedly, rapidly. Then it moved its head slightly to one side. It was in fact a live feed of Roger Stone in the green room, radiating intense anxiety, blinking quite incessantly. Maybe he was signaling his Nazi handlers like Trump with the hand gestures and the blowjob mouth shapes. Maybe he was just nervous because he had made a real fucking rookie error of judgment as the sun was setting on this late twilit stage of the last act of his political career.
His eyebrows seemed to be a smudge of colour celebrating their fierce independence from the peroxide-and-nictoine hair on the thin wedge of his head. I saw that documentary about him last week and have painstakingly charted the peculiar career of his hairline. He now has a sort of Stan Lee plastic surgery festival that suggests he has vibrant bangs from the very front of his pate that he is forced to slick back with nuclear strength Brylcreem every morning. The dream of the bald man. "Too much hair at the front. It gets in my eyes." As a result of this skin-grafting melee he presently looks like one of the fabled "Aztec Children" that P.T. Barnum used to exhibit –– those sad victims of microcephaly. His eyebrows meanwhile seemed to be a tribute to David Ferrie, Lee Harvey Oswald's former scoutmaster and also his own personal Angela Lansbury (from Manchurian Candidate, not Murder She Wrote). David Ferrie was completely hairless and enjoyed gluing scrapes of fake fur to his face roughly in the places where clumps of hair usually occur on the human cranium and physiognomy.
6. The "in" thing to do now is to disdain the talking-in-tongues Trump sometimes does at the White House lectern. He doesn't quite fall on the ground and writhe on his back with a rattlesnake in each fist (yet), but he does everything else. He says anything and everything that occurs to him in the transcendental moment. They are calling it his "word salad." This seems to me inaccurate. Unkind to salads. It is hardly a salad, lacking the complexity and heterogeneity of a salad, unless you mean by salad a sliver of iceberg lettuce and a dried up slice of carrot. It is more a club sandwich –– or in fact a "hamberder".
CNN got into the habit of calling Stormy Daniels a "porn star" while they called Karen McDougall a "Playmate". They are always very precise about the fine differentiation. Unfair.
There that's it.
2. Trump was talking about the vaporous mystery atop his fat, bumpy head. (Always a bad idea to draw attention to it.) He defended it, saying that it was his "own hair." Sophistry!
I thought about this and eventually decided he said it –– on the recommendation of his lawyers and after a subsequent, intimate and lengthy bull session with Alan Dershowitz at Mar-a-Lago –– so that he could not technically be caught perjuring himself. It is in fact his own hair –– but it is hair that actually sprung from the back of his head, that abundant and considerable source, his mullet hair, which was cut off and then grafted to the top of his head. So do you see, when he says it is his own hair, he is not actually lying. It just happens that it was moved from one place to another and reapplied.
Like the House of the Seven Gables in Salem, Mass.
Or London Bridge.
3. A couple of times now, at the height of a spirited rant in the car for the unfortunate audience of my wife, I have looked down mid-rant and seen with unfeigned disgust that I am actually making the trademark circles between my thumbs and forefingers, popularized by none other than the leader of the Western World. I looked on in candid horror –– recoiled in shame now –– tried to throw my hands away from me like alien and remote objectoids.
I then calmed down and returned to my indefatigable habit of fucking analysing everything that comes along. I said to my wife, "Imagine, if I'm doing that, making Trump shapes with my fingers, how many others of Trump's worst habits have been subconsciously absorbed and assimilated by all the world. We watch this guy every day, in the morning and again at night, and take it all in hypnotically. His vocabulary, his psychology, what he has in lieu of a moral philosophy. Word begets Trump, and Trump is virus."
4. They always say that the only person Trump doesn't criticise is Putin. It's a banality, a saw. Then inevitably it is asked, "What's he got on Trump?" What they don't say, but should, is that there is another person Trump doesn't ever criticise –– and it's incredible –– it is Kushner. Now what's he got on Trump? What awful things has Ivanka told him I wonder?
5. Roger Stone was on Chris Cuomo last night, fresh from a night in the Tombs. Chris couldn't stop marveling that he had this guest. "He's nuts to be here, dunno why his lawyers okayed it, in fact I dunno why his lawyers haven't got him sedated in a cabin off Lake Tahoe, handcuffed to a metal bedframe, but WTF it's all gravy. Let's go."
There was now an image of Roger Stone in a box in the top left of the screen. For a moment it seemed like it was a still photograph, but then it blinked. Creepy. Like the old portrait in the haunted house in every episode of Scooby Doo ever. The eyes moved. It blinked repeatedly, rapidly. Then it moved its head slightly to one side. It was in fact a live feed of Roger Stone in the green room, radiating intense anxiety, blinking quite incessantly. Maybe he was signaling his Nazi handlers like Trump with the hand gestures and the blowjob mouth shapes. Maybe he was just nervous because he had made a real fucking rookie error of judgment as the sun was setting on this late twilit stage of the last act of his political career.
His eyebrows seemed to be a smudge of colour celebrating their fierce independence from the peroxide-and-nictoine hair on the thin wedge of his head. I saw that documentary about him last week and have painstakingly charted the peculiar career of his hairline. He now has a sort of Stan Lee plastic surgery festival that suggests he has vibrant bangs from the very front of his pate that he is forced to slick back with nuclear strength Brylcreem every morning. The dream of the bald man. "Too much hair at the front. It gets in my eyes." As a result of this skin-grafting melee he presently looks like one of the fabled "Aztec Children" that P.T. Barnum used to exhibit –– those sad victims of microcephaly. His eyebrows meanwhile seemed to be a tribute to David Ferrie, Lee Harvey Oswald's former scoutmaster and also his own personal Angela Lansbury (from Manchurian Candidate, not Murder She Wrote). David Ferrie was completely hairless and enjoyed gluing scrapes of fake fur to his face roughly in the places where clumps of hair usually occur on the human cranium and physiognomy.
6. The "in" thing to do now is to disdain the talking-in-tongues Trump sometimes does at the White House lectern. He doesn't quite fall on the ground and writhe on his back with a rattlesnake in each fist (yet), but he does everything else. He says anything and everything that occurs to him in the transcendental moment. They are calling it his "word salad." This seems to me inaccurate. Unkind to salads. It is hardly a salad, lacking the complexity and heterogeneity of a salad, unless you mean by salad a sliver of iceberg lettuce and a dried up slice of carrot. It is more a club sandwich –– or in fact a "hamberder".
Tuesday, August 28, 2018
"John McCain."
It seems as though the outpouring of eulogies for John McCain is secretly driven by –– what else ––animus towards Trump. They're saying what a great American McCain was as though every word is an awful insult to Trump. Every kind word is a nail in Trump's coffin –– or at least in his leg.
People love the double-whammy of appearing to be respectful and grieving when also getting to shaft the Pres.
By the way I still can't believe that Donald Trump is the President of the United States.
People want to say, "Trump killed McCain! There, I said what everyone else is thinking, I said it aloud! It was Trump that killed him!"
I felt it too when Aretha Franklin died. It was all the CNN pundits could do not to say, "Fuckin' Trump!"
In other news they say that Doug Cowie has officially applied to have the address of his flat in Archway changed to "The London Think Tank and Archive for John McCain Studies." It is unknown whether the Royal Mail will comply with this nonsensical but obviously heartfelt request.
Wednesday, August 22, 2018
"Eight Is the Magic Number."
On CNN last night two news items broke simultaneously:–– Paul Manafort was convicted on eight counts, and Cohen surrendered and took eight lashes for sins against the Republic. My wife gripped her fists and cheered. It was like when Obama won the election. I was more jaded about it.
"This is a turning point in history," remarked one of CNN's knowing ones. This would carry greater weight perhaps if they didn't apply it to sundry occurrences on a daily basis, if not an hourly one. Either they are given to hyperbole or we are living in a heightened age.
Could be both.
(I was in a hospital in LA a couple of years back, being prepped for ear surgery. I was having tissue from my earlobes grafted over holes in my eardrums –– those self-same holes previously bored permanently into my eardrums using lasers by ingenious doctors in New York years earlier.)
(There was something of an East Coast–West Coast divergence of opinion. I don't say it was an inter-coastal war but my LA doctor pronounced the practice of his Eastern brethren barbaric. He referred to the time it had happened as though it were the dim Dark Ages when he chuckled and said, "They loved lasers then. They thought everything could be solved with lasers." I was actually passed around quite roughly like a common wanton, a sort of Barnum incroyable for the edification and amusement of medical students visiting the ENT wing in those days. I remember one lady doctor, a specialist on the ear who ironically was a very poor listener, asking a young naif if she would like to look closely into the zone of scarified trauma within my "shell likes". The girl backed away –– she shrank back –– shaking her head in horror just at the thought of it.)
(And as I went through all the preliminary processes one of the lady nurses told me that eight was a lucky number in Chinese numerology. 'Yes, I'm really lucky," I said, waiting to have as I said tissue from my earlobes grafted over holes in my eardrums.)
That was six thousand miles away and two years ago –– wonder why I even mentioned it actually –– it's not like I'm getting paid by the word –– and now here I was, drool cup in hand, hearing through –– aye –– admittedly imperfect ears, the verdict against Trump's hench flunkies. CNN's anchors kept interrupting their pundits because new footage was rolling in. Wolf even cut off the great Toobin in his Connecticut retreat.
They had a shot of the front of the courthouse where Cohen had just sung like a canary. A cluster of microphones was all, and everyday New Yorkers going past on their way home. Perhaps to a bar, perhaps to Grand Central for the commute to Long Island. Westchester. Connecticut. Points west. Yonkers. All out for Bronxville. Suddenly Wolf became excited because Michael Cohen emerged from the courthouse and swiftly darted off to the left. His right, our left. He dashed into the crowd and disappeared. I had a premonition –– the scene recalled to me Lee Harvey Oswald being led out in front of Jack Ruby –– RFK's ill-fated trip through the hotel kitchens –– it had that air of the ungluablich that precedes political assassinations.
"Somebody's going to shoot him," I told my wife. "Trump's going to shoot him –– on Fifth Avenue! It's finally going to happen!"
Good joke but it was at a downtown federal courthouse and Fifth Avenue only starts above Washington Square, about twenty blocks north.
Still I wonder if that's how Trump will signal his resignation –– by shooting somebody on Fifth Avenue. It's like –– yes –– the gun in the Chekhov play.
I used to think that that was quite a learned reference –– read it in a Phillip Roth novel I think –– but it actually cropped up in an issue of Squirrel Girl recently.
"This is a turning point in history," remarked one of CNN's knowing ones. This would carry greater weight perhaps if they didn't apply it to sundry occurrences on a daily basis, if not an hourly one. Either they are given to hyperbole or we are living in a heightened age.
Could be both.
(I was in a hospital in LA a couple of years back, being prepped for ear surgery. I was having tissue from my earlobes grafted over holes in my eardrums –– those self-same holes previously bored permanently into my eardrums using lasers by ingenious doctors in New York years earlier.)
(There was something of an East Coast–West Coast divergence of opinion. I don't say it was an inter-coastal war but my LA doctor pronounced the practice of his Eastern brethren barbaric. He referred to the time it had happened as though it were the dim Dark Ages when he chuckled and said, "They loved lasers then. They thought everything could be solved with lasers." I was actually passed around quite roughly like a common wanton, a sort of Barnum incroyable for the edification and amusement of medical students visiting the ENT wing in those days. I remember one lady doctor, a specialist on the ear who ironically was a very poor listener, asking a young naif if she would like to look closely into the zone of scarified trauma within my "shell likes". The girl backed away –– she shrank back –– shaking her head in horror just at the thought of it.)
(And as I went through all the preliminary processes one of the lady nurses told me that eight was a lucky number in Chinese numerology. 'Yes, I'm really lucky," I said, waiting to have as I said tissue from my earlobes grafted over holes in my eardrums.)
That was six thousand miles away and two years ago –– wonder why I even mentioned it actually –– it's not like I'm getting paid by the word –– and now here I was, drool cup in hand, hearing through –– aye –– admittedly imperfect ears, the verdict against Trump's hench flunkies. CNN's anchors kept interrupting their pundits because new footage was rolling in. Wolf even cut off the great Toobin in his Connecticut retreat.
They had a shot of the front of the courthouse where Cohen had just sung like a canary. A cluster of microphones was all, and everyday New Yorkers going past on their way home. Perhaps to a bar, perhaps to Grand Central for the commute to Long Island. Westchester. Connecticut. Points west. Yonkers. All out for Bronxville. Suddenly Wolf became excited because Michael Cohen emerged from the courthouse and swiftly darted off to the left. His right, our left. He dashed into the crowd and disappeared. I had a premonition –– the scene recalled to me Lee Harvey Oswald being led out in front of Jack Ruby –– RFK's ill-fated trip through the hotel kitchens –– it had that air of the ungluablich that precedes political assassinations.
"Somebody's going to shoot him," I told my wife. "Trump's going to shoot him –– on Fifth Avenue! It's finally going to happen!"
Good joke but it was at a downtown federal courthouse and Fifth Avenue only starts above Washington Square, about twenty blocks north.
Still I wonder if that's how Trump will signal his resignation –– by shooting somebody on Fifth Avenue. It's like –– yes –– the gun in the Chekhov play.
I used to think that that was quite a learned reference –– read it in a Phillip Roth novel I think –– but it actually cropped up in an issue of Squirrel Girl recently.
Saturday, March 10, 2018
"Kim Jong Un's Hair Conclusively Explained."
Nobody can explain Kim Jong Un's hairstyle, any more than they can explain the ethereal dust bunny atop Trump's "bonce". That is its explanation. Kim Jong Un's hair is a sardonic direct reference to Trump's hair –– a taunt. Why else would it exist? He permanently slicks back his hair to demonstrate his thick head of hair, evident without any transparency. Trump constructs his calendar, his whole life around avoiding having his hair mussed except in controlled, deeply partisan environments (vide the Jimmy Fallon TV appearance). Kim Jong Un shaves the sides, in a particularly erratic style, to prove that he needn't scrape material from the back and sides of his head over the top of his head (as Trump does and must).
Trump has hair at the sides and the back, like any baldheaded man, which he must artfully drag up and over his head and then seal in place using industrial-strength glues.
Trump is like a disgraced samurai (NO HE ISN'T) who has had his topknot cut off (NO HE ISN'T) and so his hair hangs down like a humiliated Haight-Ashbury hippy who still haunts the old scene. In the bushido this is an offence to the personal honour that can only be resolved by ritual suicide.
More accurately, Trump is like our old friend Dog the Bounty Hunter, who similarly uses day-glo paints to dye his hair and then utilizes a complex wattle-and-daub tapestry technique to keep his bald areas hidden from fake news organizations and Bob Mueller-guided "Deep State" government drones.
How it must burn Trump up that Kim Jong Un has no need of hair at the side of his bead –– he positively shaves it off in a cavalier manner –– because he has the upper part of a human hairstyle on his head. Not even the bottom part –– he doesn't need that. It's like he had his barber cut off the lower part of the hairstyle because it was redundant. After all, Kim Jong Un (editors –– should I refer to him as "Un"?) only lives to tease Trump, it's the only fun he gets out of life.
Heck gosh it's the only fun any of us can have at the moment.
Thursday, March 8, 2018
"Stormy Versus the State."
On Wolfe Blitzer's CNN show lately he's been asking everybody he can about Stormy Daniels. He starts to stammer, his palms become clammy, he coughs and groans inwardly in tormented horror and delight grotesquely combined, as he leads the subject –– any subject –– around to Stormy Daniels.
One moment he is asking the worthy senator from Rhode Island about the steel tariff or about the Mueller investigation and then he will spontaneously all but abandon the subject, brush it aside as though it were so much lint, fluff, nasal discharge and say instead "What about St– St–– Stttt–– Stormy Daniels the porn star Stormy Daniels?"
Jack Reed (the Rhode Island senator in question) was flustered too –– he actually said that there was a "stormy path" ahead for President Combover, and he didn't even cover himself by adding, "PUN INTENDED!"
Wolfe was too busy wiping his forehead with a handkerchief to say "NO PUN INTENDED SENATOR!"
Poor old Laura Coates was drafted in to talk about the legalese of the matter when Wolfe plainly just likes to hear Stormy's name said aloud, particularly by women.
He plainly delights in talking of her, but he always brings her up awfully politely, like a nervous professor at a cathouse, fiddling with his bowtie and with a bunch of daffodils in his hand. "Is–– is–– is–– is the porn star Stormy Daniels receiving visitors?"
DUDES GOT A SCHOOLGIRL CRUSH AAAAAAAH HAAAAAAA>HA LULZ.
Thursday, March 1, 2018
"Hope Hicks Jokes."
Has anybody made this joke yet? I've been out of the "Foggy Bottom loop" because I'm working as a temp in a laboratory and I haven't been able to watch CNN twenty-six hours a day like usual.
"Trump's lost Hope."
"Trump is now more Hopeless than ever.'
"Fucking Hopeless."
There is further fun to be had from this woman's name that sounds like a classic character from a comic book (Lois and Lucy Lane, Lana Lang, Wally West, Peter Parker &c. &c.).
"Trump Loses Hicks."
"Hicks No Longer Supporting Trump."
"Trump Abandoned by Those Knuckle-Dragging Hayseeds and Mouth-Breather Hillbillies Who Voted Him Into Power."
Lastly, my wife said last night, "Define a white lie anyway."
I cracked back: "Lies by white people."
"Trump's lost Hope."
"Trump is now more Hopeless than ever.'
"Fucking Hopeless."
There is further fun to be had from this woman's name that sounds like a classic character from a comic book (Lois and Lucy Lane, Lana Lang, Wally West, Peter Parker &c. &c.).
"Trump Loses Hicks."
"Hicks No Longer Supporting Trump."
"Trump Abandoned by Those Knuckle-Dragging Hayseeds and Mouth-Breather Hillbillies Who Voted Him Into Power."
Lastly, my wife said last night, "Define a white lie anyway."
I cracked back: "Lies by white people."
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