Trump Youth






Trump Youth

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Trump Youth (often abbreviated TY) was the youth organization in the USA modeled on the Hitlerjugend of 30’s Germany and the Spies of Orwell’s novel 1984. Trump Youth sought to provide white heterosexual boys ages 10 -18 an unintegrated regimented club to help cultivate their inner Nietzschean Uber-Menschen after the Boy Scouts of America allowed gays and transgendered youths to join.

The brainchild of Trump Strategist/Counselor/Svengali Steven Miller, who had been mercilessly baited in high school because of his uncanny resemblance to convicted oananist Pee Wee Herman, Trump Youth enjoyed its heyday between 2017-19 during Trump’s abbreviated administration.


The organization never became that widespread, being concentrated in the rural deep South, the southern Midwest, and Montana.


The members of the Trump Youth were indoctrinated into racism, sexism, and homophobia with an emphasis on military training so that they could be employed as counter attackers to combat the prolific massive protests that characterized the Trump administration; however, because of the geographic distribution of the TY troops, their effect was minimal given the dearth of such protests in locations that had large per capita concentrations of Trump Youth troops, places like conservative Lickskillit, Louisiana and Possum Trot, Alabama .


After Russia’s invasion of the Poland and Balkans in 2017, and the US military coup that removed Trump from office, the TU disbanded during the period martial law that followed.


Unlike the Hitler Youth, membership in Trump Youth was never compulsory. Former members have, not surprisingly, attempted to expunge their names from troop rolls because of negative employment consequences.



The Physiognomy of Trump’s Inner Circle


Over her lifetime, my mother, bless her soul, accumulated an abundance of spurious wisdom based on a combination of unscientific observation and intuition. Sometimes she’d have forebodings and forbid me from doing rather pedestrian things like riding my bike home from the gas station where a flat tire had been patched. “No, I just have this awful, awful feeling,” she’d say. “Something’s bad’s going to happen if you ride that bike.” In other words, I was doomed to be flattened by an 18-wheeler or smack into a tree and spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair. So we’d cram the bike in the back seat and drive on home.

Undoubtedly, her sense of doom has contributed to my rather pessimistic view of the world. You know, irrational thoughts like thinking your team’s going to lose the Super Bowl even though they’ve racked up in the third quarter an insurmountable lead the likes of which has never been overcome in a half-century of Super Bowls.

Sometimes, though, I think Mama did hit the mark with her unscientific conclusions — for example, her contention that time etches people’s ultimate personalities onto their faces by their habitually assuming certain telltale expressions, e.g., the angry, scowling malcontent’s mouth carving a perpetual frown, the bland sweet matron’s pleasant expression blanking away wrinkles —  the equivalent of the warning I received as a young child that my “face was going to stick like that” if I kept making grotesque faces.

[Warning: Neck-breaking Segue]

Just for the hell of it let’s take my mother’s theory and apply it to President Trump’s closest advisors.

Ladies, first. Kellyanne Conway.

Okay, I know I’m pulling a Trump here, criticizing a woman’s looks, but I’m not saying Kellyanne’s unattractive, just that she looks mean.  She’s a brittle-looking 49 to me, and no doubt being the target of so much ridicule will only harden her more, turning sinister those ersatz smiles aimed at the cameras of MSNBC.  Perhaps once she possessed a “sunny disposition” but something has soured it.  Working for Trump can’t be good for your soul.

To me she looks like she could be the illegitimate daughter of Phyllis Diller, though without Diller’s self-deprecating wit – a commodity that seems to be lacking across the board among Trump and his staff.


I’d cast Kellyanne as the wicked stepmother in the Snow Whites of New Jersey.

As far as looks go, I think Steve Bannon comes off as the coolest.  I like the way his abundant whipped-back hair sometimes falls in his eyes.  He’d, make a great character in a Tennessee Williams play, the rugged terrain of his face blotted with gin-blossoms, his eyes puffy, his spinal fluid pumping white supremacy.


CLEVELAND, OH - JULY 20: Stephen K. Bannon looks at his computer to see who will be the next caller he will talk to while hosting Brietbart News Daily on SiriusXM Patriot at Quicken Loans Arena on July 20, 2016 in Cleveland, Ohio. (Photo by Kirk Irwin/Getty Images for SiriusXM)

Banner’s the absolute opposite of Mitt Romney – disheveled, disorganized, paunchy, atheistic, hungover.*  Sure, he’s evil, but if I had to have 10 beers with one of these dark apostles, he’s be the one I’d choose.


Would definitely choose him over Steven Miller.  I don’t know a thing about Steven Miller, who supposedly works hand on hand with Bannon, but certainly he and Nosterafu share a common ancestor.  His vulture-like demeanor precludes the possibility of empathy.


Then there’s Reince Preibus.

Reince Priebus

I predict he’ll age in warp speed like Abe Lincoln.  Like, I say, working for Trump’s toxic.

*Full disclosure:  *Psychologically it could be that I’m projecting my own self-description on Bannon the way that Trump kept calling Hillary crooked.

The Other Liberace


28 Jan 1978, Los Angeles, California, USA --- Liberace spoofs a day in his own life during a television special, including a scene where he baths in his $55,000 marble bathtub. --- Image by © Bettmann/CORBIS


Let’s face it, as far as taste goes, Donald Trump makes Liberace seem almost restrained.

No, that's not Donald Trump depicted in the painting

No, that’s not Donald Trump depicted in the painting

setting of many a historic tweet

setting of many a historic tweet

What’s with this rococo? Hasn’t Trump read No Exit?  Stupid question.

Imagine being his housekeeper, a fate worthy of Dantean damnation, Hell’s Tenth Circle, where the super avaricious have to scrub parquet floors to the eternal piped-in sounds of 3 Doors Down between chronic eagle-liver-plucking visitations from the Donald himself.

Okay, back to Liberace.  Hair style comparison.



Where the two differ obviously is in their dress.  Trump seems to have some obsessive compulsive disorder that demands he wear exclusively dark suits and garish cardinal colored ties, most often red.

"Part of the beauty of me, is that I'm very rich."

“Part of the beauty of me, is that I’m very rich.”

Compare that with Liberace’s sartorial inclinations.


Here are a couple  no brainers:  Which of these super celebrities had the sunnier public persona? Which one would you rather be in charge of the nuclear codes?

Ritualistic Warfare


This morning one of my dear friends posted this eminently reasonably question on her Facebook feed: “Ok. Before I go to bed,  I must ask, “Is football really that important?. . . and what if it isn’t?”

This query reminded me of some anthropological  work I conducted five years ago to investigate the role that American football plays as a medium for social cohesion.  I published my findings in another venue, but I have received permission to republish here in its entirety.


My travels as an amateur ethnologist/anthropologist have taken me to many exotic – dare I say dangerous – locations. Whether it be sampling indigenous herbs in a tourist-unfriendly dance club in Montego Bay, mentioning positively a taboo word like Hillary among Baptists at a cousin’s Orangeburg County funeral, or infiltrating the decadent underbelly of Folly Beach debauchery at the Sand Dollar Social Club, I have repeatedly put myself in harm’s way for the sake of science.

at a club in Mo-bay Jamaica

at a club in Mo-bay Jamaica

So when my friend and colleague Furman Langley suggested we make the trek to Columbia, South Carolina, to witness and study first hand the ritualistic warfare known as college football among a savage and frustrated tribe known as Gamecock Nation, I jumped at the chance. Of course, I have witnessed these fascinating spectacles before, but always as an outsider, someone peering from the periphery, distant, in the upper tier of the stadium squinting my eyes while choking on jet fumes.

This occasion offered, however, the rarest of rare opportunities, to don rooster regalia, to hobnob among, not only proletariat practitioners, but also among the upper echelons of the Gamecock Nation, culminating spectacularly with a meeting with the Big Chief, himself, Dr. Harris Pastides. And, more importantly, I was able to witness the ritualistic warfare from a vantage point from which the combatants didn’t look like ants scurrying across a green and white napkin but like gigantic human beings I wouldn’t want colliding with me at literally break neck speed.

Big Chief Pastides

Big Chief Pastides


Based in St. Amelia Island, FL, Furman Langley has concentrated his anthropological career studying Late Empire American behaviors among large crowds. His particular field of expertise is rock concerts. In fact, when I encountered him doing field work at a Springsteen concert in North Charleston a couple of years ago, he informed me that he had attended another Springsteen concert in Jacksonville just days before.

This dedication to science has taken him all over the globe, as he as has repeatedly put his hearing in jeopardy by witnessing live shows by – a full catalogue would run pages – let’s just name three: the Dead, the Stones, and Dylan. So, of course, I leapt at the chance when Furman asked me if I would like to accompany him to Williams Brice Stadium.

We decided that the wealth of data that such a trip might yield demanded we stay overnight to observe the Gamecock Nation’s behavior after the game, to experience their jubilation if they triumphed, or more likely, their despondency if they happened to lose.* So we met at a Travel Plaza outside of St. George, South Carolina, left my rather cramped vehicle there, and proceeded in Furman’s appropriately black Carrera, black being one of the totemistic colors of the Gamecocks.

*The abysmal performances of the Gamecocks over the past century has given rise to a myth called the chicken curse. Indeed, the Gamecocks had not defeated their opponents of today’s game since 1933.

Note the Gamecock hat on the dashboard to signal fellow game goers we’re of their tribe.

Note the Gamecock hat on the dashboard to signal fellow game goers we’re of their tribe.


Location 1

Actually, more time is spent during what natives call pregaming or tailgating than viewing the ritual of warfare that follows. To obtain the widest range of data, we tailgated at two different locations, one in the hinterlands of the stadium, an area populated by lower tribespeople, and the other in a so-called cockaboose, a refurbished train caboose that elite members of the tribe purchase for tens of thousands of dollars.


tailgating, location 1

Furman selected an area with which he was familiar along a street of various warehouses. Many of these businesses supplement their income by charging money for the privilege of tailgating in their parking lots; however, Furman shrewdly parked in a free spot across from the parking lot pictured above.

Our provisions consisted of a six-pack of Kalik beer (whose name voiced in conjunction with the second syllable of the team’s totem for some reason produces eruptions of laughter from tribesmen and women alike).

We hadn’t been standing there long before two African Americans rolling a cooler down the street asked us if we’d like “a free sausage biscuit.” When Furman answered in the affirmative, they asked us if we wanted condiments. We thanked them profusely and consumed the gifts, which though generously bestowed, consisted of a half-dollar sized sausage on a saucer-sized bun.

Observation 1: Normally capitalistic tribesman engage in communism with total strangers if those strangers have donned the colors and paraphernalia of the tribe.

(The photograph below offers an example of Gamecock paraphernalia – a beverage refrigerator/hand protector called a koozie).


Minutes later two other tribesmen parked their vehicle behind Furman’s and set up a small table with their provisions: wings, crab dip, and light beer. These two, who consisted of an elder, Frank, and his son, Bruce (both sporting black jerseys) offered us some of their wings, crackers, and crab dip as they discussed recent battles and this particular assemblage of the Gamecock warriors. In fact, they voiced some trepidation about the competence of the Gamecock Field General, a 6-year senior called Garcia. As it turned out, these worries ended up being prophetic.

Observation 1 confirmed: these red state Obama haters communistically offered us members of the intelligentsia their bounty in the name of Gamecock solidarity.

Location 2

Via cellphone, Furman established communication with Jay and Lee Ann, fellow anthropologists who have forged a trusting relationship with the owner of a cockaboose. So we set out on foot to rendezvous with them so we could obtain entrance into the sacred grounds. The following photo of three exuberant tribespeople we encountered on the trek demonstrates how total strangers abandon social inhibitions when they encounter others sporting totemistic regalia. Note the young tribeswoman’s fingers, not, as the uninitiated might assume, declaring cuckoldry, but rather as a sign of solidarity among rooster rooters.


Location 3


At the gates of the Cockaboose confines, security officials distributed plastic bracelets designating us as among the cockaboose elite. Jay offered us two malted beverages and escorted us into the inner sanctum of the cockaboose where a cornucopia of high calorie culinary delights stretched before us like a highway to a heart attack.


Once again, I found the natives to be absolutely hospitable to me, a total stranger.

After what seemed a short time, we began our journey to the field of combat, but not before Furman and I ascended to the steps to check out the rooftop vantage point.


As we neared the stadium, the density of celebrants increased as did their levels of exuberance. Below we see Jay returning from greeting some natives he has gotten to know.


The trip to the stadium offered several curiosities:


Among them an encounter with the Supreme Chief of the Gamecock nation who had his bodyguard snap a picture of us together.

From left, yours truly, Jay, Marty Springs, Big Chief, Furman, Lee Ann

From left, yours truly, Jay, Marty Springs, Big Chief, Furman, Lee Ann

Eventually, we made into the stadium found our seats, and enjoyed the pageantry.


The Game

Alas, after all of the hullabaloo, the ritual warfare proved to be anticlimactic, to say the least. Frank’s and Bruce’s worries about the field general proved all too prescient as the Gamecocks managed to blow a fourth quarter lead and have defeat snatched from the jaws of victory.


After the debacle of the game, the once jubilant nation shuffled off like participants of the Bataan Death March. Some could be heard muttering under their breath Shamecocks and Gamecrocks.


Subdued about sums it up.


Although a victory would perhaps offered more interesting data collection, we did, I think, confirm that these ritual gatherings may help to unify a diverse community of otherwise potentially combative elements. Here, Republicans, Democrats, Independents, blacks, whites, hispanics, and the rare albino can for a few hours form a brother/sisterhood.


A Fate Worse Than Death


This is the time of year when I typically publish my annual “That Was the Year That Was” post, sashaying down memory lane reprising old chestnuts from the last 12 months in an egotistical attempt to drive up my hit totals before the new year. (This year’s total to date 23,358, but who’s counting?)

However, 2016 has been so horrible with the deaths of friends, the reoccurrence of Judy’s cancer, and the election of the Tangerine ManBaby™, I can’t summon the strength to revisit what has seemed the entire 14th Century [1] compressed into 366 dolorous days.

illustration from a Norwegian newspaper

illustration from a Norwegian newspaper

Instead, I’m going to reprise a post from my all-but-defunct Late Empire Ruminations blog from 2011, back when Donald Trump was, according to Barbara Walters, merely one of the year’s “10 most fascinating people” (as opposed to a Mad Tweeter with access to nuclear weapons).

Anyway, Enjoy, and Merry Xmas/Happy Hanukkah/Wonderful Kwanzaa/ Super Saturnalia, etc.

Jean Paul Sartre’s existential hell of No Exit seems downright paradisal if you imagine the unspeakable horror of being trapped in an open boat with Barbara Walter’s 10 Most Fascinating People of 2011*, i.e., Herman Cain, Katy Perry, Eric Stonestreet and sitcom co-star Tyler Ferguson, the Kardashians, Simon Cowell, Derek Jeter, Amanda Knox, Pippa Middleton, Donald Trump, and the late Steve Jobs, who in this scenario would be cannibalized by the survivors.

One wonders if such an array of narcissists in such a small space might upset the delicate balance of matter v. anti-matter, their collective self-absorption sucking the entire universe into the insatiable black hole of their egos.

*For some odd reason BW deems the Kardashian sisters as one person and the duo of Stonestreet and Ferguson as one person as well (perhaps because they play a gay adoptive couple on television). Otherwise, we actually have 14 fascinating people.


Come to think of it, this idea would make one hell of a movie, if any investors out there are ready to kick in some capital and send it my way. Of course, the film will begin on the QE2 in the near future, our 14 fascinating cast members on their way to Iran to entertain occupying troops in the first term of the Gingrich Administration.* Unfortunately, killer drones attack the luxury liner, killing Derek Jeter and Pippa Middleton, perhaps the least egotistical of the fourteen.

*2016 note:  Yipes, I wasn’t too far off.

As the survivors vie for attention (imagine the McLaughlin Group in full-throat contention), the electromagnetic force of their egos creates a black hole that sucks them to a new universe where they each form a separate planet (with its unique costuming) and the rest of the movie is devoted to their preparations for an intergalactic war that will put all six Star Wars movies to shame.

I mean, it’s like Open Water 2 meets Starship Troopers. Picture Donald Trump attempting to fit the cotton-candied parallelogram of his hair inside a space helmet or Amanda Knox skipping out on amassing an air force to go clubbing at the mos-eisley-cantina.


We’re talking boffo box office, investors. You know how to contact me.

[1] A few highlights from Century 14: the Great Famine of 1315-1317 kills millions in Europe, the Hundred Years’ War begins in 1367, the bubonic plague hits its peak in the years 1346-1353 reducing the world population an estimated 350-375 million. I know those plague death numbers sound unbelievable, even by Wikipedia standards.

Post Retirement Projects

Now that my career’s closure lies a mere nineteen months away,[1] I’ve started thinking about how to spend the overabundance of free time that a retirement without ailing parents or wastrel children or impending lawsuits provides a relatively well-to-do Late Empire US citizen.

Some people have suggested I write a book about growing up in a small Southern town teeming with lovable oddball characters (and few mean-as-cuss rapscallions), you know, back in the days when polite whites called African Americans “colored people” or “Negros.”

Hasn’t this story already been done a time or two? Anyway, because my sensibilities run closer to the filmmaker David Lynch’s than to Ferrol Sams’, I can’t see myself pulling anything off that print publishers would touch, even with gloves, certifiably impermeable, approved for Ebola victim corpse-removal. [2]

The character Bobby Peru from David Lynch's "Wild at Heart"

The character Bobby Peru from David Lynch’s “Wild at Heart”

Thinking, as they say, outside of the container, it occurred to me that I might come up instead with a project that benefits society, something like a post-Trump etiquette manual to help citizens negotiate the shifting sands of what’s now socially acceptable while providing them with a historical context for cultural changes, a sort of map of decline in manners over time.

Excerpt from working manuscript:

On Chivalry

In the Age of Elizabeth (1558-1603), an act of chivalry might be a courtier’s removing his cloak and throwing it over a puddle so a lady wouldn’t get her dainty foot wet.

In the Age of Eisenhower (1953-1960), an act of chivalry might be a gentleman’s getting out of the driver’s side of a car, walking around to the passenger’s side, and opening that door for a lady sitting there.

In the Age of Clinton (1993 -2000), an act of chivalry might be a dude’s submitting to a chick’s request that he use a condom.

In the Age of Trump (2017- ), an act of chivalry might be a dudebro’s refraining from grabbing a bitch’s snatch even though she’s oh so fuckable.[3]

Emanuel Gottilieb Leute "Elizabeth and Raleigh"

Emanuel Gottilieb Leute “Elizabeth and Raleigh”

Or maybe I could spend my days in fantasyland, Walter Mitty style, imagining myself riding around in a backseat of chauffeur-driven Cadillac with Memphis Minnie, me in a double-breasted suit and matching fedora, she in cotton dress while playing her guitar and singing about how much she adores me.



Worse idea: Out-Milton-Milton and memorize the Holy Bible and Sartre’s On Being and Nothingness word-for-word.

Better idea: Take golf lessons. Play nine holes a day.

Even better idea, enlightened hedonism: go through the stages of Yoga’s sun salutation upon awakening each morning. Then mindfully concoct breakfast, noting the crack of eggshell on skillet rim, the rain-like sizzle of the bacon. Eat those eggs, bacon and grits deliberately, mouthful by mouthful, savoring. Go retrieve the paper and peruse it on the deck or screened porch while sipping coffee. Discuss the fall of civilization with also retired spouse. Afterwards, meditation followed by a walk on the beach or a paddle on the river or a bike ride off the island to Fort Henry. The remainder of the morning spent reading or writing. Tomato and cheese sandwiches. The NY Times crossword. Happy Hour. Preparing dinner with spouse followed by TCM or conversation. More social media. A nightcap. Yawn. Morpheus descending. Sweet dreams . . . ennui.

Okay, what was the name of the pervert in my hometown who dressed like Castro and rode his bike around town dragging behind it underwear he had traded newcomers for firecrackers?

[1] Discounting the possibility of a nuclear exchange with China

[2] As I write this, I suddenly remember a woman and severely mentally challenged grown daughter who used to patronize my granddaddy’s gas station. I can’t remember the daughter’s name, but she always carried a baby doll with her and spoke in garbled cassette-tape-getting-eaten slo-mo. My Aunt Virginia told me my grandmama forced Virginia to play with the girl/woman. Click here to see why that might not have been such a great idea.

[3] On the function of scatological language in satire, click here.

Trump as Satiric Butt


Traditionally satire has been classified as Horatian or Juvenalian in honor of two ancient Roman practitioners of the genre. Horace (65-8 BCE) cleverly but gently mocked Roman opinions and institutions that he considered worthy of ridicule. In Horatian satire – Geoffrey Chaucer falls into this category – you get the feeling that overall the satirist generally is fond of humankind (in spite of itself) but wishes to poke fun at its foibles, perhaps in hopes of ameliorating them. Almost all of non-literary contemporary satire falls into this category. For example, Mad Magazine, The Daily Show, and Saturday Night Live exemplify characteristics of Horatian satire, particularly in their employment of exaggeration and irony, holding up, as it were, a funhouse mirror to human nature.

Take SNL’s satires of Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump, for instance. Despite exaggerating those politicians’ personas, the skits do so with good humor. The writers portray Hillary as incredibly calculating and Trump as a bit of a buffoon, but certainly neither comes off as monstrous (despite thin-skinned Trump’s overreactions) as they very well might in a Juvenalian satire.  The fact that Clinton herself has appeared in some skits underscores the “gentleness” of the satire.

Unlike Horace, whose satires might be likened to the clucking of a tongue, Juvenal’s[1] satires are more like spitting into the face of the target. Juvenal held humankind in utter contempt, like his artistic soul brother Jonathan Swift, and employed scatology – images of excrement, disease, and filth – to transform the object of the satire into a monster. In Juvenalian satire, the motive is not so much to emend but to mock, as Swift does in his portrayal of the Yahoos in Gulliver’s last voyage. The ill-fated Charlie Hebdo satires on Muhammad offer another example of Juvenalian satire’s mean-spirited mockery.

If Trump finds the rather light touch of SNL’s satire outrageous, let’s hope he never encounters a Juvenalian satirist’s assessment of his character.

For example, a Juvenalian satirist might come up with the following Trump Insult Kit (based on those Shakespearian insult kits you can find on the Internet). Essentially, these “kits” have three columns, the first two containing adjectives culled from Shakespeare’s plays and the third containing nouns. Scanning the columns, you choose adjectives from the first and second columns and attach them to a noun of your choice from the third column, coming up with something like, “Ye churlish, toad-spotted miscreant.”

Rather than copping words from Shakespeare’s plays, however, the Juvenalian satirist (who shall remain nameless) that came up with the Trump Insult kit mined the scatological recesses of the gothic Anglo-Saxon subterranean wing of his or her vocabulary to choose caustic, ugly words to ridicule Trump’s appearance – his Kraft-cheese colored epidermis, his corpulence, etc. The idea is someone this hideous needs to be described hideously.  It’s as if the satirist has gone beyond stooping to Trump’s level but has out Trumped Trump in a vulgar way that brings to mind Rabelais, another Juvenalian satirist.



The Donald Trump Trolling Insult Kit


Choose a term from each column to create a salutation for your next reply to one of Trump’s tweets:


Hepatitis-hued                                     canker-encrusted                              shrivel-dick

Tangerine-tinted                                  syphilitic                                             pus sac

Spray-painted                                       diarrheic                                              sewer spawn

Swag-bellied                                         sociopathic                                          rat’s turd

Cheezit-colored                                   micro-cephalic                                     boar’s snout

Dabbo-brained                                     tick-ridden                                           bed-wetter

Soul-stunted                                        triple-chinned                                      piece-of-shit

Sphincter-mouthed                             fecal-friendly                                       piss pool

Crotch-crippled                                  snot-spewing                                      scum-slurper

Shit-flecked                                         imbecilic                                              offal-gorger

We suggest you mix and match on different days for variety’s sake: “You, tangerine-tinted, tick-ridden boar’s snout” on Monday but then perhaps “You swag-bellied, triple-chinned scum-slurper on Friday.

* * *

Ultimately, Horatian satire tends to be more palatable for most audiences because, let’s face it, Juvenalian satire is disgusting  —  it’s meant to be.  The prudish consider it crude, in bad taste, which ultimately is the point.

Think of it as a Lear-like lacerating scream penetrating the desert air.  It might not help in any practical way, but releasing righteous indignation is cathartic and in that sense healthy — at least for the satirist herself.

[1] Late 1st, early 2nd century CE