Warning: This going to be a rant, so find a “safe space” to read it, and buckle your seat belt.
When is someone going to shoot off the flare that alerts everyone to the fact that our President, Donald Pussy-grab, is certifiably delusional, erratic and basically barking mad on a day-to-day basis?
This isn’t just Trump-bashing, it is simply observing his behavior. Phillipe and Jorge aren’t sure about you, but if any of our friends said they were a “very stable genius” and boasted of their “great and unmatched wisdom,” we would be edging toward the door and taking them off our future party invite list. This almost puts the egos and posturing of Benito Mussolini and our old pal Adolf to shame, never mind the modern autocratic, mass-murdering dictators of this age — take a bow, shirtless Vlad Putin, frothingly insane Kim Jong UnDeuxTrois (he of the 18 holes in one he had while playing golf for the first time), Salman Dismemberment whatever-the-hell-his-name is trillionaire son of the desert, and countless South American major domos who the Orange Orangutan holds in high esteem. Boy, they just don’t make them like Idi Amin anymore, do they?
P&J’s temperate, considered solution to the fact that we have a reckless, unbridled commander-in-chief who is making America look like the most ignorant shower of assholes in the world would be to either horsewhip him to within an inch of his life outside Trump Tower in New York City or simply string him up, the latter of which is the only language he understands, which includes English.
We, as a country, deserve much, much better than this. A delusional head of state who, because it dawned on him he lost the popular vote, has just signed a death warrant for the courageous Kurds who had our back against Isis and the scumbag Syrian leader Bashar al-Assad who is wheeling and dealing with China, the Ukraine and Russia.
We’ve said this before and we’ll say it again: For all the talk of Trump’s “base” support, if he went into a bar for a beer and started talking loudly about stiffing his contractors, grabbing pussies and being a genius unmatched in wisdom, he would at best clear the stools and at worst get his ass handed to him.
And the blatant nepotism and appointing people to jobs for which they would never get invited to interview for is equally appalling. Daughter Ivanka, whose tits Daddy has all but admitted wanting to fondle, is a fashion designer whose cheap, Chinese-labor made crapola wouldn’t make the shelves at a dollar store. Her hubby, Jared Kushner, the deer-in-the-headlights, know-nothing little schmuck, is an idiot whose father bought his way into Harvard and couldn’t be further over his head if he were at the bottom of the Mariana Trench, and the breathtakingly arrogant and preening sons Donald Jr. and Eric, who can’t find their asses with both hands. Oh, and let’s not forget Melania, the Eastern European mail-order who is essentially a Mortimer Snerd for her ventriloquist husband.
Add Attorney General Bill “Phat Phuc” Barr to the list along with Nosferatu look-alike Rudy Giuliani, and you have the official American nightmare. And that loud roaring sound you hear as you drift off to sleep is that of our Founding Fathers spinning like industrial lathes in their graves.
At Casa Diablo a couple of weeks back, your superior correspondents made a point of wearing black armbands when we heard that Rip (now R.I.P.) Taylor had passed away.
Rip was a P&J favorite and also very close to the mother of Casa Diablo regular Max Alexander. Back in the late 1970s, when Max was bartending at the legendary Leo’s bar and restaurant on Chestnut Street and living at the Casual Research Institute with Jorge (Rudy Cheeks), John Rector, owner of Leo’s tried to inveigle Rip to do a one-man show at Leo’s. Max is the author of Man Bites Log (2004) and Bright Lights, No City (2012), both of which we highly recommend.