No country for dirty old men

Donald Trump is a reprobate.

A lecherous, year-one baby-boomer, and a dispensary of a very particular brand of potent white poison. He’s the doted upon dote of affluence and nepotism, squeezed from the penis tip of a glorified slumlord, consummate racist and “old Adam” father, who reared and geared his hellish heir in the dark arts of wheelin’-and-dealin,’ windfall real estate. As a man, he’s a leftover, a vile cheese and cauliflower concoction, overcooked and wrapped in aluminum foil, stinking up, and bogging down, the future, and that’s just the way his bankrupt supporters like it. With his substandard politics and squalid views on women, which he gleefully mixes and dishes out, with great relish, along with super-size portions of piping heaps of racist diatribes, Trump is all and everything the played-out playboy of yore represents. He’s the proud well-dressed pig wandering the dressing rooms of pageants, helping himself to eyefuls of exposed female flesh, because he runs the joint, he’s “the owner,” the guy! The cash-flush creepy king of uncles, wiggling a dollar bill protruding from the zipper of his trousers, the constant aggressor, the corporate predator, judging and rating on a surface level before pouncing or dispatching human beings at a whim. He’s sexual harassment personified, in a fitted flag adorned suit, obsessed with appearance and running ramrod over Title VII of The Civil Rights Act of 1962, 19-fuckin-62!

And here we are 54 years later, watching this Queens-born latent virus, this classic, corrupt captain of industry making a grab for the absolute pinnacle of power one can attain in the free world, a power that, if you give him the chance, he will wield with out cogency or coherence over your battered head. As the chairman of Deplorable Org, where treating women as disposable units with the finite expiration date of age 35, and writing off every non-Anglo as a vicious combatant thrashing outside the kingdom’s door, Donald Trump has proven, time and fuckin’ time again, he’s the grossest man alive, and, in the grand scheme of things, a completely worthless hunk of pyrite. This man, this stubborn fucking mustard stain of a man, is the stereotypical epitome of the American boss solidified; Mr. Money-Bags, born such, saying and doing terrible, heinous and traumatic things to others and simply brushing off his constant and daily reprehensible actions as business and pleasure, as usual; His withered heart pumping hot-tub water through his Mac-attack-coated arteries, as he sits at the head of the conservative trough, serving up slabs of respite from reality to the remaining Republican rats who have yet to fling themselves from the plague ship deck; his prolapse brain always in the gutter, dictating lewd and salacious actions to his tiny hands, manic and repulsive, his Sucker Eel-like mouth forcing slobbery kisses on to any woman he deems worthy of his abuses.

Trump the tower dweller, know-nothing know-it-all, incapable of a true state of debate, his shaky understanding of the issues poorly masked by his “Mister Tuff Talk with the sniffles” routine of interrupting, repeating and drop a shock bomb rhetoric in order to send his female opponent into exasperation, trying his hardest to break her into submission by stacking the bullshit 50 feet high, and letting his menacing air loom large in the town hall full of undecided lost souls. Mr. Trump, stalking the stage, pulling skeletons from closets and trunks, riding a tumultuous wave of tyrannical threats, pointing his assertive fingers in her face, his lying-eyes slicing at her like razors, denying, backtracking, revealing the petulant little boy at the center of his core, caught in a corner with his pants down, his algorithm crashing as his mind darts from one personal conflict and man-made disaster after another — “the Taj Mahal is falling, and I’m being toppled by a woman! A stupid fucking woman! My god, Fred, what’s happening! Pussy and Bush! Must cyber better! I have a son! Birth Certificate! Benghazi! Bill does it too! She deleted! Miss Piggy! Very high standards, have I! Ivanka voluptuous! You’d be in jail!  Check out time, Toots!” Locker room banter, bathroom chatter wheels on the bus, “Access fuckin’ Hollywood”! You can do anything — you’re a star, you’re a star, you’re a great bigly important star, and no one respects pussy more than me!” Welcome to the future, Donald Trump, where there’s no country for dirty old men.