I want the newly elected American President to have that “new car smell.” Alas, DJT has this odor of antimacassar and freshly peeled snakeskin. There isn’t enough Vicks “Vapo-rub” to cover it. Even a third rate used car comes standard with a urinal cake Christmas tree ornament hanging from the rearview mirror to hide the stink of teen sex and beer. I think the GOP should give out miniature mega-theric squirting bouquets.
It remains to be fully seen what they’ll be giving out. My sister who’s gay and her partner who’s Jewish fear they’ll have to wear pink stars in Trump’s vast used car lot and their fear is considerable. Everyone knows what hatred permits if they’ve been brutalized consistently throughout life. Some fears are intelligent. Pink stars may not be the order of the day in a Trump administration but upending gay rights—you can smell it. It’s what’s on the wind. Deporting people. Yup. Smells like bully boy testosterone.
The smell I’m mostly picking up is familiar in the midwest—blood and feathers. The whole world can smell it. It used to be a localized stink—Iowa, Ukraine, Guangdong, but now, it’s spindrift over Washington. We’ll need a mini-bouquet for each nostril. And for those who care enough, we’ll need them for our pets.
Meantime I’m still trying to describe the odor of Trump. I think it’s got something of the sweat of Andrew Jackson, who in turn carried in his skin the stink of Rome. It’s the stink of Jackson’s deathbed.
“Despite a legacy consisting of enough violence and death for twenty men, Jackson admitted to having two regrets on his deathbed: “I didn’t shoot Henry Clay and I didn’t murder John C. Calhoun.” In a life rich with murdering people for little-to-no reason, Jackson’s only regret was that he didn’t kill quite enough people. People like Calhoun, who, it should be noted, was Jackson’s vice president. No one is safe from Jackson’s wrath.”