No one cares./Image: Licensed Adobe stock, robsonphoto.
Perhaps it’s stating the obvious–though, what really is obvious in the Trump Era, when the economically-disadvantaged elect a billionaire, women elect an Access-Hollywood-er, and Evangelicals elect an affair-haver–but…wait, where was I? Oh, right–four score and seventy-three years ago, a Scottish-immigrant domestic worker and an ethnically-German businessman–not that their ethnic stock is germane to the riveting discussion we’re about to embark on, but what the hell–bequeathed unto the world a son. He never grew up, did a lot of dumb s–t, fast-forward seventy-three years and he’s president. And he thinks White House Correspondents can be so mean! It’s not fair! You don’t understand us–never have. We’re going to our Alt-rooms, and we just might never come out. Don’t try to come get us out, either, because we don’t want that. Forcible sex acts and bragging about grabbing women’s genitalia are electably-awesome, but if an African-American woman makes insightful, undeniable, and fudging-funny observations about our Norse-god-esque-leader, his orange dermal palimpsest doing a terrible job of hiding his pastiness, he and we of the Alt cry foul.
I Anthony Hayden Host, the D.C.-social-scene columnist here at SYRW, must tell you that, Michelle Wolf may have done a Trump-tear-inducing-ly bad–which in 2018 Republican circles means, to the rest of the world, “good”–job of roasting, skewering, and humor-based-barbecuing our Commander In Chief, but she better listen-oh-wait-read–the following: it’s called the good-life-choices things President Donald Trump did while not attending the White House Correspondents Dinner. We caught up with a few of the awesome human beings who run the Trump Show and asked them what Agent Orange did while Wolf delivered an engaging, compelling, insightful criticism of Trump and his dumb-ass cronies.
Cry Me a Polluted River
“A person reveals his character by nothing so clearly as the joke he resents,” said Georg C. Lichtenberg, using the unfortunate-but-undeniably-less-clunky-than-slashes-and-yes-hyphens male generic. Oh, but doesn’t he, Mr. Lichtenberg? He could also cry about it. And that’s just what Trumpistan did while Wolf threatened to blow his house down with her rightly-scorn-filled jest-manifestations! Things that make everyone else literally nauseous, crampy, and dysntery-y, apparently, now, turn us on the right of the political spectrum on in the same way that suppressed votes and systemic injustice used to–a.k.a., a lot. And unlike no-one-will-miss-them-hookers that we Republicans favor for our 50-Shades pursuits. we don’t have to deny this, hide it away, or take it on a “vacation” it never comes back from.
That’s why we applauded or rich-non-Jewish-white-guyn hands off when Trump gave a tearful speech at a top-secret location about how sad, mad, and even bad, it made him feel in his empty, shriveled heart for a little man called Trump that someone pointed out that he’s a terrible, terrible person, but did it in a funny way so that it wouldn’t be a major bummer.
Doing Lines
In the 1980s rich-ies dealt with feelings of sadness by doing dumping a bunch of coke on a mirror, dividing the pile into lines with a razor blade, and snorting away their pain. But not anymore, especially in the case of Trump, who doesn’t drink or drugs, which again, speaks to a lack of sensitivity, because he has no pain, angst, or anguish to numb. He experiences upset in the most basic, childish instantiation of indignation, frustration, and it’s-not-fair-tion: self-pity. Most people, again, find this trait, in adults, repellent but we Alt-ers have decided in the Trump Era that we find it to be the hallmark of an Again-Great-America leader, so we love it like we hate others.
And: The astonishingly Alt-truth behind the Ronny Jackson fiasco.
After Trumps, weepy stage-spectacle at The White House Despodent’s Dinner, he descended the dais. His aides, like Kellyanne Conway, Stephen Miller, and General John Kelly had already lined every attendee up in single file from the front of the stage to the back of the room. Trump stopped in front of each right-wing-er, and every admired reminded him of one of the many things to love about him. Trumpp then gave each boot-polisher a hug.
Everyone’s Out to Get Me
That’s the title of a to-be-published book penned by Don Jon himself–and by that ,we mean stream -of-un=advanced consciousness blurted out in a series of self-indulgent meetings with a reporter who’s written exclusively flattering news articles on him.
Unsurprisingly, even what’s billed as an impromptu cry-fest to underscore how hurt, harmed, and hounded Trump’s lack-of-feelings were at Wolf’s completely hilarious and insightful jokes, in Trump’s mind is an opportunity to sell the latest realization of the trash-sourced goods he sells to aspirational shoppers hoping to live a piece of the Trump dream. Somehow this ever-hopefuls forget they need a $14 million inheritance to do so. So, at the end of this short but moving evening, Trump signed his books and took pics with fans of him and the poorly-ghost-written word. Â This made his baby ego feel a lot better, and despite red, swollen eyes and a stuffy nose, he left the event smiling. All’s well that ends pathetic!
I dare you, dear SYRW readers, to think of a better way that a human could fill time than the previously described Alt-activities, known colloquially as Alt-ivities. You can’t, can you? That’s because no way to waste your life exists–just doesn’t exist! At this point, biopsychosocial research has pretty much confirmed like a cognitive bias that humor is an embodiment of a sharpness of mind like no other ability is. It’s pure coincidence that this website is humor-based. Not relevant to the discussion. Both the telling and taking of jokes speak to an advanced mind and soul–but sadly, or maybe it’s not so sad, hot bodies accompany vapid minds as often as va-va-voom-inducing ones. It’s probably best this way. Albert Einstein’s brain in Angelina Jolie’s body would just be weird, to be frank. Or Marie Curie’s mind in Ryan Reynolds’ body. Or Elmo’s in Miss Piggy’s.
Also: Don’t listen when friends try to tell you not to be an a-hole on the job!
Nothing but nothing indicates a whip-smart intellect like a whip-smart-wit, and nothing alerts us to a low, down-and-dirty-like-Republican-politics, bottom-which-is-near-a-p—y character like a maudlin, fragile, self-pitying reaction to ribbiing, teasing, and poking fun. To be honest, dear Alt readers, I Babla Walrus, was shocked, then to find that Trump-itty-Trump-Trump was so appalled by the idea of having his bear-like habitus poked by Wolf that he not only avoided the dinner, but put together his own.
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