A frontal assault is not going to finish him off. We all know this. If we’re going to ruin him and his supporters – and we are – then we need to ruin him the way the Russian turned him. We need to prey on his desires. His insecurities. His fears.
We have to haunt him like his memories of watching women pissing on a bed.
I’ve been pushing this line for a while: I was right about Putin using bodily fluids to control Trump (though I went for spunk rather than urine because I am a traditionalist, dammit), and I suspect my comparison between the orange goblin and Michael Gambon’s Albert Spica in The Cook, The Thief, His Wife and Her Lover will prove similarly on the money (aside from anything else, it would explain why Melania was so keen to stay in NYC with Barron).
Gratifyingly, others are now starting to pick up on the lack of virility Trump’s attempted John Wayne swagger tries to hide. Sam Kriss, at The Baffler, has a particularly good piece drilling down into the weird sexuality of the Donald: his bleating about his opponents being ‘nasty’ or ‘not very nice’, ‘his gesticulating hands, his New York whine’, the weird fact that he pays women to micturate on the bed of a male rival because he’s too afraid to do the deed himself. Taken all together it makes for a picture of Trump as ‘a soppy old bitch…a living caricature of a garrulous Jew, the mother from a Philip Roth novel.’ Quite so. There is a reason I call him the Wimp-in-Chief.
Incidentally, Kriss draws a fantastic comparison between mama’s boy Trump and his mother – a comparison which led me to a Google Image search for her and boy, did it not disappoint. Gaze upon the face -and hair – of Mary McLeod Trump and draw your own conclusions, people:
Why might an overgrown boy like Donald Trump be obsessed with piss and beds? What thoughts might haunt him?
Maybe Mother coming home?