Big Bad Beautiful Bitch Body; DJT
What’s all this rumpus about Trump and the Death of Democracy?
He seems nice.
A natural leader.
Clearly a very stable genius.
So much to like.
He’s giving those media types what for, baby. Like Jonathan Karl, who over decades became one of the most respected figures in the White House press pool and beyond, and is Chief Washington correspondent for ABC News.
Karl had asked in a presser earlier this week about the assault on the first amendment, as exemplified by the disproportionate outrage Trump beckoned into being over the woeful death of Charlie Kirk, and with the threats of actions by AG Pam Bondi : "She’ll probably go after people like you, " Trump blithered with angry savor, "because you treat me so unfairly. You have a lot of hate in your heart. Maybe they will come after ABC."
Asked how he's processing his friend's death, Trump grunted a brief demurrer, but with a contented wave indicated where the heavy trucks were grinding across the grounds to build the ballroom he feels the country so badly needs– for 150 years now, he insists.
Trump’s reliably charming solicitude towards the stakeholders of the United Nations—“Your countries are going to Hell!”—quickly put in the shade two of his typical yawps from earlier in the week. (Not so parenthetically, Trump’s irrepressible joy over commencing construction --the “fourth stage of grief,” inspired Kimmel’s skewering jape that actually made Donny target the host.)
And yet Tuesday's dazed White House bavardage about dubious dangers of (spectacularly mispronounced) acetaminophen as delivered via Tylenol took the prize for random spewing of distracting falsehoods.
Jefffrey Epstein—still dead. The Epstein story? Anything but.
I know, we need wait but a few hours for The Donald’s reaction to whatever Jimmy Kimmel says when he retakes his 11:30 spot for the show that has risen from the beating Disney just took in the marketplace and media.
Well, we digress. The theme of this post is meant to be the remarkable physicality of our President, a muscular 6’ 3” and 215 pounds. (That’s what he told the Fulton County, Georgia jailers when surrendering, in a fashion, to fave the Georgia election indictment.)
He might still claim 6’2”, but even a top sycophant, say, Mr. Pillow, would not buy 215 lbs.
The man in full, then.
Somehow the Donald always leads with his mouth, so let’s start there.
I notice his lower teeth get more air time than his uppers. These bottom fixtures are not spavined like Rudy Guiliani’s whiskey-colored lower four incisors. Trump’s are whitish, but they seem to have some browning where perhaps Mickey D’s ketchup remans stuck in the grooves.
The top row, with its industrial-scale caps, is used in the general population for indicating things positive; as such, those choppers are seldom deployed by Trump.
Just once he gave in to almost giggling. As he addressed the U.N. six years ago when the august body actually laughed at him mockingly, as one. The trigger was his opening attempted braggadocio: “In less than two years, my administration has accomplished more than almost any administration in the history of our country."
He absorbed the depantsing in fair form: “Didn’t expect that reaction, but that’s okay.” He finally gutted out a rare, human-adjacent look of amusement. (The frozen rictus he uses for meeting heads of state or other patsies brought to the Oval office cannot properly be termed a `smile.”)
(The smackdown comes just forty-odd seconds in):
But back to Donny the man, the mistake we're still paying for. Did they call him Donny at military school? The lo-res yearbook photos remain familiar somehow.
The pic of him in his fake soldier outfit with the white sash and black cummerbund has probably dazzled many an incel. The sub-butch tunic with its epaulettes and (gold?) buttons is set off by the white gloves. He looks dead serious—not the sort of guy who feasibly might be off boofing with Squee, as Justice Kavanaugh did at a similar age.
His yearbook states he was on the Fall Hop Committee. (But can one really hop, in the terpsichorean sense of the word, with those dang bone spurs? Did they give out Purple Hearts at New York Military Academy? )
He told the Washington Post that he learned more “militarily” than some actual recruits in the armed services. Further, “I became one of the top guys at the whole school.” (He grew angry with the WaPo reporters who investigated a reported lenience as regards his supposed task to curtail hazing of the future suckers and losers. He was shunted to a less peer-facing post, aiding the school staff as a “supply sergeant”.
He was actually on three athletic teams—again, probably fighting those disabling bone spurs.
One can picture Pete Hegseth,at some future cabinet-level suck-up fest, jawing forth, “Sir, I bet you would have made one heck of a warfighter”?
Here’s the WaPo inquiry into Trump's days in...uniform:
Of course, he was decorated—or so I like to fashion it in my imagination--—with the Croix de Poontang for importing city girls (NYMA was 60 miles from Manhattan); such damsels said by a classmate to be outfitted by Saks Fifth Avenue.)
This association with chaste elites would form a soon-abandoned prelude of sorts to his later fondness for Third-Tier Models/Actress /Whatever’s. He would be a full-on Lothario soon enough; one imagines a decoration for romantic valor that could could be pinned on him —by none other than his wonderful and beautiful friend and keeper of secrets, Mr. Jeffrey Epstein, wearing a Harvard shirt.
A proud name the university once boasted, before our President decidedit had lost the path,and would have its traditions and present effectiveness severely undermined by a public flogging administered at the Chief Executive’s instigation.
N.B.: No discussion of his inherent valor can leave out is statements in 1997, when he likened the dating scene during the AIDS epidemic to "his personal Vietnam," adding partly in reference to dodging STD’s, "It is a dangerous world out there, it's scary, like Vietnam... It is my personal Vietnam. I feel like a great and very brave soldier".
In the catalog of priceless Trump videos, only the “grab `em by the pussy” Iliad can compete with the party footage derived from a NBC video portrait of his monumentally cheesy party self:
He shows some white man dance moves in video of hanging with Jeffrey, but pay close heed to the very Squee body language of biting the lower lip with those front choppers—who da man now?
While we are celebrating his enduring physical beauty, don’t neglect that mobile turkey wattle as it wiggles beneath a chin that, at times of patriotic fervor, is nobly outthrust. Seated in the Oval—as opposed to snoozing a bit during boringly and yet crucial) country-running episodes, he is the model of grumbling attentiveness. Check say, his Sumo-like posture in a gilded chair while enjoying, J.D. Vance screaming at the (to most) heroic Zellensky with couture tips. (How J.D. must hate those memes that exalt him as a sort of bald, chubby furry person.) For such encounters, Trump adopts an “arduous defecation” stance, sometimes pressing fingertips together to perhaps help ease forth what one assumes to be one of his notorious moments of flatulence.
But hold. We haven’t yet appreciated his gossamer (or is it crinkly?) crowning feature. By God, our man must be streaming Neanderthal hormones! Look what he has done with the just three or four hanks of follicle-deficient knots of “hair” Nature has gifted him with in perpetuity. The sweep of his bouffant, tangerine-apricot-urea-hued bird’s nest seemingly spun like a Asian swiftlet’s from saliva. This aerie is a proper topping for that very stable genius brain it overarches.
We’ll descend a bit. The brow is relatively unwrinkled--as in, untroubled by any speck of remorse for mounting a campaign against all that is just and decent in American society and history.
As of this writing , he was officially—can that really be the word for anything he does?—warning mothers off acetaminophen, based on unproven theories that it increases incidences of autism. He leaves the caution to “tough it out,” thereby possibly fomenting fetus-damaging fevers the medicine could be taked to alleviate.
Migrate on down the saddle-leather cheeks (rendered so immobile and moonscape-like by an impaso of foundation that lends the familiar”orange” hue. )
We have mentioned the mouth that signal dance, baby dance. He would have us imagine it has palpated many a willing (or, as a certain New York court and ex-wife would have it, unwilling) love partner.
So much is possible if you’re a star.
Always photo-bombing soccer teams and G-7 attendees, he also blocks our view of varying cabinet operatives. E,g., if you want to be mistaken for somebody who has kept their looks, just stand next to Deportation Czar Tom Homan for a photo op. This is a man where ugly flesh fights in out with ugly spirit. Can’t you see chin(s)-wagging human armadillo Homan being bent double to be performatively frog-marched to a stinking prison? (Patience—perhaps the czar's reported receipt of a bag of cash handed over by F.B.I. investigators will truncate this snarling patriot’s brief, ugly reign. )
But again we have we missed a trail marker in our Voyage Around Our Autocrat. Of the physique, the less said the better. For example, is he a boxers or or briefs kind of guy, down there where a mushroom might ripen?
Really, how did God answer to Herself after making this guy? Would she say he slipping through via some primordial sinkhole where Satan had kept him stored up along with the world’s worst autocrats?
We were, most of us, raised to avoid mocking the ill-favored. But with Donald J. Trump, the mind/body bifurcation has yielded to a mash-up, as the these past nine years his perfidy and slack morals and taste for crushing our sacred institutions into ugly debris that meets his vision have haunted the nation.
If mockery is all we have left with which to push back, so be it.
Over to you, Jimmy Kimmel!
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