PUNCH AND JUDY

he way I see it, Donald Trump and Rosie O’Donnell would make fantastic blow-up balloons for the Thanksgiving Day Parade. They already look like grotesque caricatures of themselves, and they’re fat as freakin’ balloons. All it would take is to insert a tube into their butts and inflate some helium.

Where does Trump get off calling Rosie O’Donnell fat? What is he, Mr. Universe?

And she, with that mouth of hers, insisting upon referring to her same-sex partner as her wife, it’s enough to make you VOMIT!

I’m all in favor of equal rights for civil unions, but the day some guy says to me, “I’d like to present you my wife, John” all bets are off. That’s where I pull an inflatable male sex doll out of a bag and say, “I’d like to introduce you to my wife, Mel Gibson.”

Even on our best day, Americans are a bunch of freaks. For a president we’ve got that geek, George Bush. The New York Post reports that out in Hollywood, where schlock never sleeps, they’re making a science fiction movie about a guy with half-a-brain, and I can’t understand why they don’t use Bush to portray the guy. He’s getting his ass handed to him in Iraq on a daily basis (while the rest of us are being dragged along, kicking and screaming, for the ride) and instead of just cutting his losses and getting out, he’s sending another carrier fleet and an additional 20,000 soldiers for what he’s calling a “surge.” At the same time, like a halfwit poker player who’s getting cleaned out hand after hand, he’s now raising the stakes by threatening war against Iran, when everybody knows he’s holding a hand of pure shit.

[Before every Republican nut-job in the world jumps on my back for impugning the American soldiers like they did with Kerry, let me say that all the shit I’m referring to is the contents of the stinking bucket of offal that Bush and his idiot “advisers” are carrying between their ears]

But I don’t want to stray too far from the centerpiece of my little shelf of ghoulish specimens, the matched pair of Donald Trump and Rosie O’Donnell, and their little harelip dyko handmaiden, Barbara Walters. Anybody who does not believe we are a nation of freaks would do well to take a minute to contemplate this monstrous little ménage à trois of syncophantic succubi.

Barbara Walters never had an original thought in her life. She worships the ground Henry Kissinger walks on. She has never written anything I can recall, and her speech patterns and subject matter are intentionally soporific. Just seeing her face on the tube induces me to pass out. That’s her charm. She is a bland product of mass-marketing. Spending five minutes watching Barbara Walters speak is the equivalent of driving down an endless cowflop-pasture country road in a suffocating hot car listening to grandma drone on endlessly, spilling the hot dope about her rich relations. Where’s the button for the ejector seat?

See, here we got fat, clueless Rosie O’Donnell, “The Queen of Nice” (excuse me while I puke!), who is such a jinx, who attempted a lifestyle magazine modeled on herself, yet, and a multimillion-dollar flop of a Broadway show showcasing another bloated has-been, Boy George of all people, from a generation ago and who looks it. This Boy George ain’t no Rocky, though it might be amusing to cast him as the wasted old drag queen who comes back to suck one last cock.

In the other corner, you got Trump, who has always been an enigma to me. Trump was born rich, and he has been able to parlay his family money into a three-ring circus, with him as the ringmaster and all the acts.
To hear him speak, as I was finally able to do during his war with Rosie O’Donnell, he reminded me of another rich guy I used to know, who was born into a family with money and who managed to not lose it. But, believe me, the guy was no ball of fire, and neither is Trump.

In the eighteenth century French stage comedy, “The Marriage of Figaro,” Figaro, who has cunningly maneuvered to keep his intended wife out of the clutches of the Count, laments in his soliloquy that it takes more ability for a normal man just to survive on a daily basis than it does for a born monarch to rule a kingdom. Every time I see or hear Trump, I remember that there are millions of people in New York who would run rings around him if a system of equality ever existed.

I readily concede that too much modesty can kill a man. New Yorkers want you to be humble – so they can be in charge. Nevertheless, the culture of celebrity as it’s presently configured is weighted way too much in favor of money and childish, masturbatory infantile Page Six self-congratulation that pushes aside the more enduring eroticism that results from immersion in the wealth of classical culture that is our world patrimony.

In the fine Public Television series “I Claudius, “ which was a kind of highbrow sitcom taking place during the reign of the Roman emperor Augustus, one of the blighted female characters exclaims, “I want to be a God!” Back in those days, you could be promoted by imperial decree to the status of God and have temples erected with priests and holy orders appointed to worship you in an official religion.

This kind of senseless striving seems ignorant and comical these days until you analyze the current scramble toward deity that is a daily occurrence in our own culture: without an official program in place for reaching the status of God, people are improvising their own path toward immortality, erecting their own temples and tribunes – Trump Tower, Trump Casino, Trump World and, God help us, Trump Magazine.

Indeed, even as Trump ridicules Rosie O’Donnell’s ill-conceived and failed attempt at literary immortality, his own mess, called TRUMP, naturally, is prominently on display at midtown kiosks, the front cover adorned by a blonde in a business suit, undergoing her own wardrobe malfunction.

Without even slowing down in my own mad rush to oblivion to stop and peruse this tome, I can pretty well imagine the editorial conceptualization that led to its assuredly stillborn emergence. “People want to know what it’s like to be me. We’ll show them my buildings, my casinos, my wardrobe, my women, my helicopter, my jet, my money, blah-blah-blah…”

It’s a wasteland. So, instead of these clownish caricatures who are only serving to highlight the blighted condition of intellectual and cultural deprivation we are currently enduring, who could serve to infuse us with the inspiration that the wealth of our nation so obviously merits?

Arnold Schwartznegger? Absolutely. Six times Mr. Olympia, a fantastic movie career and visionary governor of California. God Bless America!

Mayor Bloomberg? He is capable of being a good manager for our country, and it’s possible that he would elevate people of great intellectual and artistic stature to positions of prestige and influence. If his infrastructure initiative gets traction, it will elevate him head and shoulders above all the other politicians in a country that is crying for an upgrade. My money’s on him.

It’s interesting to note – both these guys are Republicans, like a flower springing from a stinking pile of manure.

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Posted on 1/15/2007 ( Permanent Link )
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