Inside Donald Trump is a smaller Trump, no less orange, no less bleached. And inside this smaller Trump is another, and the diminutions and fittings shrink til finally the last Donald (who looks like a hairy drip of liquified butter) sits in the ossuary of dreams–the bone yard of the collective unconscious where the janitorial angels have sharp gold claws and Stalin’s body walks around without its head, but still in uniform.
“I am the hardest working, most wonderful butter spat in history–everyone–people say–you know butter isn’t bad for you–you don’t need to cut the grass or anything–lots of dead people around but think about it they look great, don’t they look great?”
Planet of the Blind 