Archetypically, within any given adult lifespan, one’s gay porn career would follow a four-tier trajectory: Phase One, ages 18 to 27: “Bitch Sub Bottom;” Phase Two, ages 28 to 44: “Perv Muscle Top;” Phase Three, ages 45 to 59: “Daddy, please Sir!;” Phase Four, ages 60 to infinity: “Mr. Silver Fist.”
Scale the American presidency to a gay smut career, and we’re firmly in the grips now of Mister Fister: Well past his prime and he only does hate-fucks. His wife, our First Lady — on the Henry VIII Spousal Survival Wheel of Roulette — won the coveted Katherine Parr slot, managing to outlive his tom-cattin’ days. If only we civilians were so blessed. Unnervingly, his hush-toned moniker, The Antichrist, just will not die.
Exhaustion has its limits. One can’t exist in a perpetually-suspended state of eye-rolling psychosis waiting for the money shot. But one can’t fake it forever. Something has to give. When are we, as a nation, finally going to say to Trump’s 24/7 peep show arcade of never-ending “Breaking News” nut-busters, “Freak, enough already!”?
Will Vance ever muster up the kahunas to goosestep into the Oval Office to declare, “Mein Fuhrer, it was real. It was fun. But it sure wasn’t real fun. You’ve got a half-hour to vacate. How do you want them to see you exit: straitjacket or limousine? Your choice.”
With Trump drowning in Iran’s quicksand and gasoline skitters around $5 a gallon, the time’s ripe Vance show his true Stalinist mettle, replete with an amused little mustache tweak, lest all be lost to mundanity. He knows a coup is his only way up.
“Understand me, sir? We’re giving you two options: Exit with you dignity intact, blowing kisses from the chopper as you lift toward sunset behind the gates of Mar-a-Lago. Or we can hustle your big-boy-Pampers’ ass out the secret Monica Lewinsky side entrance toward a black Maria awaiting your prearranged arrival into the soundproof walls of Walter Reed National Military Psychiatric Center for the Criminally Insane.”
Meanwhile on Capitol Hill, our federal government appears to have swallowed an entire cauldron of Jim Jones’s infamous Kool-Aid recipe: L’Orange’s surname is suddenly being branded onto everything — unprecedented, cult-glorified MAGA shams and scams, alike. The Donald J. Trump U.S. Institute of Peace (I kid you not) has already been inaugurated as the very first federal building ever named named for a sitting president. Unprecedented. Unholy. And with the unilateral blessing of the State Department, no less!
And what chutzpah, this renamed Donald J. Trump/John F. Kennedy Memorial Center for the Performing Arts! Oh, and don’t forget all the modifications to Trump’s new Air Force One, a former Qatari 747, donated as a “gift” by Qatar’s royal family to America — uh huh — retrofitted to the tune of $400 million to waft L’Orange’s lard ass aloft by July 4th
And how could we even call ourselves glorious Americans, without a new fleet of “Trump-Class” Navy ships — the first of which will just so happen to be named the USS Defiant (again, no joking, kids), trumpeted by former Navy Secretary John Phelan as “the largest, deadliest, and most versatile and best-looking warship anywhere on the world’s oceans.” Whew! Thank God, it’s deemed good-lookin’ — the one takeaway from Trump World being only surface matters.
And I’m sure you saw that Congress snuck in a proviso for taxpayers (not private donations as promised) to foot the bill for his new billion-dollar ballroom atop the rubble of the bulldozed East Wing? The same, no doubt, will be true of the new 250-feet tall Triumphal Arch (the world’s largest!). I seem to also recall a “Golden Dome” anti-missile defense shield to be erected over the entire lower 48. And The National Mall’s massive Lincoln Memorial Reflection Pool has just been drained and resurfaced “American flag blue” in time for the Fourth of July festivities.
But the winner of the most bizzarro of Trumpian fantasia dreams has to be our new National Garden of American Heroes, featuring statuary of 250 iconic Americans, which even Trump admits, “is really just for me.” Unsurprisingly, its size also keeps ballooning, becoming more costly by the day. Already, Congress has appropriated a staggering $40 million toward it. But one question remains: Exactly which 250 Americans shall make the final cut? And heroic according to whom?
Like, bitch, what happened to all your purported “private donations”? And just where is all this congressionally-appropriated money coming from anyhow? Hell, the Iran War, alone, devours a billion per day!
But never say Trump isn’t a welcoming host — for the right price: The now -familiar Trump Gold Card visa gives anybody who can pony up $1 million instant American citizenship, no questions asked. And I love my new patriotic passport design, bearing L’Orange’s scowling mug shot. Supreme Leader also graces the cover of my new national parks pass. Every scintilla of ethics, honesty, decorum and statesmanship has been led to slaughter.
According to a recent New York Times headline, “U.S. Debt Hits ‘Worrying’ Milestone, Washington Shrugs.” Seems our government learned only last week, “that it may have reached an unfortunate milestone: The size of its debt surpassed the nation’s total economic output.” And to think, such a revelation didn’t merit the paper’s cover?
This is what the march to autocracy looks like, folks: barely noticed until, suddenly, one day the Rubicon is crossed, and our bridge of hope back to a democratic republic has been dismantled behind us. We have become former again — formerly magnanimous, formerly giving, formerly great. There is no salvage.
The real reason Congress keeps handing L’Orange blank for his vanity projects is that he doesn’t have enough private donors to even remotely cover the billions-plus costs of his spendthrift scattergoods, what Lincoln called “flubdubs.” And congressionally-sanctioned flubdubs keep him distracted from further vaporizing our former “American Greatness” factors: Destroy, deploy, deny, defy.
I’ve a confession to make: I’ve started taking lessons at the local firing range. I don’t know why. I’ve never previously in my life felt any compunction to own a firearm. It’s hardly like my day-to-day activities place me in sketchy situations. I live high up in the sky, of a building with a lobby guard on duty 24/7. The only places I drive are within a half-mile radius of Uptown — my grocery store, the bank, pharmacy, restaurants and vet. Anywhere beyond Northwest Highway, and my car’s console flashes “Here Be Dragons! ALERT!” I reside in a land of aspirations won. The ugly mush of reality is kept far at bay. Current day, anyhow.
Remember what they say: Anarchy always lurks but seven meals away. Guaranteed.
—Howard Lewis Russell
Any comments, questions, observations or wisecracks, please feel free to direct them to yours truly. Summer is swiftly approaching, after all, and I’ve already begun sharpening my shade, tanly, here at AskHoward@DallasVoice.com.