Yesterday afternoon, Caroline and I met Cathy Coulter and Chuck Sulliavan at Lowlife to celebrate Chuck’s 83^rd birthday. As so often is the case, Donald Trump, our most Liberacean^[1] of presidents, elbowed his way into our conversation because earlier in the day at the G-7 conference in France, he made such an egregious ass out of himself that it would have been downright unpatriotic not to mock him. 

After arriving 30 minutes late for a meeting, rather than apologizing to the heads of state assembled there for inconveniencing them, Trump declared himself “the Boss”— a not-so-subtle fuck you to allies we should be at least polite to in public. I guess you could say it’s ironic that someone so obsessed with décor (cf. Liberace) would lack all sense of decorum.

A day earlier, in a slurred speech that lasted over one hour, he called the presidents who preceded him “dumb sons-of-bitches.” Of course, the so-called speech was essentially—like all of his speeches—a tirade, a catalogue of paranoid grievances punctuated occasionally with braggadocio so outrageous that it would make the Wizard of Oz blush. 

As we sat there at the bar, it occurred to me that Trump’s family must not really love him. Otherwise, they would stage some sort of intervention. He’s a shambling wreck of a human being, the most insecure person on the third planet from the sun. Let’s hope if there’s an afterlife, his mother and father are howling alongside the likes of Stalin and Lucretia Borgia in the sulphureous flames of everlasting perdition. 

It’s ultimately their fault, his hideous parents’ fault, who look like freaks from some long forgotten Twilight Zone episode (or worse, mishappen demi-demons crammed into a corner of one of Bosch’s canvases). Obviously, they didn’t love him, and that black hole of neglect has fueled his gargantuan insecurities so that it’s now a requirement at cabinet meetings for cabinet heads to perform oratorical fellatio on an obese diaper-wearing wrestling promoter incapable of speaking in coherent paragraphs.

Oh shame, where is thy blush!

Anyway, Chuck said that Trump would never allow an intervention, which is no doubt the case, but if Ivanka, Eric, Donnie, Jr.  genuinely cared about him they would. 

I suspect that the only person who really loves him is his communication director, Steven Chueng, who loves him the way Odd Job loved Goldfinger, i.e., stupidly.

---

^[1] Liberacean, adj. resembling the flamboyantly gay pianist popular in the previous century.