A substantial overproduction of elites: your momma’s so fat, even Donald Trump called her fat!

Far be it from me to refrain from pigsploiting St. Louis White Community leader Sam Dotson for being a sworn stout shorty. When I see the morbidly obese undertaking their belabored pilgrimages to the food lines at all-you-can-eat Chinese buffets, I snicker a bit inside, and sometimes outside as well; the struggle is real. When I see portable nasal oxygen canisters being brought along on this journey, I don’t know whether to snicker or cringe, so I usually do a bit of each, as one does at the buffet. The only reason Billy Nungesser third helping of jambalaya memes aren’t a regular feature around here is that Sam Dotson Steak-n-Shake clean plate club memes are. The chief is White, his shirt is white, and by the time he’s done, his plate is nothing but white. If that won’t make Ron Johnson go pale with embarrassment, maybe the stuff he did in Ferguson when he wasn’t being professionally woke with a public employee pension to show for it will.

Nah, I didn’t stop by here this morning to be that woke. I came here to titter about fat people. Ooh, I just said “tit.” Giggity. It calls to mind Sound and Pound with one of Tacoma’s thicky tricks, which I still haven’t arranged because I’ve been banging a hella skinny chick in Oregon instead. I’m still a chubby chaser; I’m just not entirely up for that particular chase at this particular time. The last time I was in Atlantic City, I worked some skinny girls into a lather by having said of one of our new drinking buddies from Connecticut–very quietly, mind you–something like, “That fat chick is super hot.” Which she was. If these politically correct skinny chicks had never disingenuously manipulated a BBW for their own crude psychosociosexual advantage, I’m Rob Ford. I much prefer a different kind of PC: Pierce County. And yes, I’m full of shit when I act like I’m too classy to go to Spanaway to schtup a chubby.

So maybe my testimony isn’t the most credible when I swear that Donald Trump’s views on fat women are a problem. But here’s the thing: his views on fat women are a serious problem. And because he’s running for the presidency, they’re now one of our national problems.

This is a man whose views on women’s ideal figures are ostentatiously misogynistic. “I wouldn’t bang her personally, but maybe someone else would” isn’t good enough for him. (Yes, most men sexually size up (heh) the women in their lives, and yes, most women use this male sexual interest to their advantage, some of them quite crassly so. No, this sexual interest does not make us all literally Brock Turner. I was going to say that it does not make us all Robert Pickton, but giving a shit about the murder of poor, nonwhite hookers by sexual deviants apparently isn’t the done thing.) Trump needs to set and police the weight limits. These weight limits need to be low and strict. If they aren’t, he can’t get the psychosexual thrill of making his socially climbing distaff pushovers do tricks for him. (“It’s not a trick, it’s an illusion! A trick is something a whore does for money!”)

None of this is really about whom Donald Trump and his old boys might want to bang. It’s coquettishly made to look that way, within weirdly repressed and hypocritical limits, but it’s really about the toxic male prerogative to control women. It isn’t about sexual gratification; it’s about psychosexual aggrandizement. Sexual intimacy with a reasonably attractive woman a man who isn’t dead broke can pay for from time to time with a prostitute, who is unlikely to let men boss her around. If she’s up for some more five-way chili, she won’t mind channeling Julia Pearson and being all, “Doyle Samuel, you’d better not eat ALL of that!” (This piece is categorized under Thick Bitches. I’m just keeping it plural. BTW, they say white’s a slimming color. LOL.)

Successfully turning women’s nutrition into a shit test and being in it to win it is a trickier, and dirtier, thing for a man to accomplish. It’s a soft application of emotional abuse, which, again, prostitutes are pretty damn unlikely to humor so meekly. If a woman doesn’t naturally have high metabolism or a small appetite, her only way to keep a public misogynist’s approval in the sort of beauty pageant that Donald Trump enjoys is to resort to pathological manipulation of her own bodily functions: throwing food away when she’s still hungry and not at any risk of significantly overeating, becoming anorexic or bulimic, using laxatives absent constipation.

Wanting to dictate another person’s bodily functions is just fucking sick. There are times when a loved one is drinking or eating to such pathological excess that an intervention is warranted, but a decent, normal, healthy person doesn’t relish such a duty. Donald Trump has spent much of his career making a show of policing women’s bodies. This is one of the alarmingly pathological things about the beauty pageant scene that gets surprisingly little mainstream attention. Not only does it hammer home the message to women that they won’t be valued unless they’re beautiful, it also warns them that they won’t be beautiful unless they have the figures of pre-Title IX stewardesses.

Again, prostitution is not so cutthroat. A sex worker needs to appeal sexually only to enough of a customer base to keep getting hired regularly. If she has regulars who feel comfortable with her, being declared sexier than every other woman in a field of fifty or two hundred or whatever the hell is irrelevant. The point is probably moot, Springfield. No, it’s definitely fucking moot. Hookers aren’t made to dress up like whores and do a song and dance on a catwalk before leering men and crazy bitches who are trying to live vicariously through them, but with the stipulation that they dare not be found to really be acting like whores, however the organizers and promoters define whorishness. Not many forms of sex work get more deranged and hypocritical than that.

This is the background to how we ended up inviting complaints about fat women into our national political discourse. Donald Trump professed to be butthurt that some Venezuelan lady put on weight. This is the damnedest thing to find troubling about Venezuela. Venezuela is in the midst of an economic crisis to severe that its grocery stores can’t keep basic staples and toiletries in stock, and our leading presidential candidates are arguing about whether or not one of them disrespected a D-List Venezuelan celebrity who happened to be in his eye candy harem by calling her fat. This is the same level of seriousness that these candidates are bringing to bear on more important foreign policy questions, too, such as whether the United States should continue helping Saudi Arabia bomb Yemen into the stone age and plunge the national dick into the Russian hornet’s nest because some chickenhawks in Georgetown are butthurt about Putin for vaguely explained reasons.

That Donald Trump claims to take it personally when women gain weight on him should not be a matter for prime-time political discussion. It’s an uglier assertion of male dominance than most Americans will normally contemplate, but we have other venues to litigate it. Unfortunately for the courts, these venues include the courts. We needn’t litigate these disputes only figuratively. Trump has a long history of rude and vicious behavior in his public life. The very premise of The Apprentice was managerial behavior so hostile that it would likely get a real-life boss not protected by carefully worded actors’ contracts sued for workplace harassment. And what did anyone expect Trump to discuss with Howard Stern? Gregorian chants and praying the hours?

If he were running against an opponent interested in policy more than scandal-mongering (say, an old Brooklyn socialist from Vermont), we might not have to listen to all this seedy, distracting shit in the guise of political coverage and commentary, but he’s running against one of the most distrusted, compromised, and notoriously unscrupulous politicians of our time. Wow Much emails None wasserman Where fbi Omg julian assange Very podesta. A moral panic over Trump’s sexual proclivities, roughly the same ones that Trump has made prominent features of his public life for decades, is more useful to the Clinton campaign than anything having to do with the Clinton campaign itself. This was not and still would not be a problem with Bernie Sanders because he never had any need to hide from his own past, but he’s too busy trying to do team of rivals shit in backrooms with the Clinton machine when he isn’t at work in the US Senate to fit in television appearances in the hope of deweimarizing the national political discourse.

That’s the other thing. Trump’s ostentatiously misogynistic toxic masculinity avoided, and fairly narrowly so, being played off directly against Sanders’s healthy, decent, edifying masculinity, which incidentally would also have faced Jane Sanders, an exceptionally well-adjusted woman, off against Melania Trump, an unfathomable freak. Instead the vulgar, leering oaf gets to have his one-on-one with the first woman to run for the presidency as a major-party candidate, who is also one of the most hated and distrusted yuppie shrews in the country.

Imagine a three-way bitchfest between Phyllis Schlafly, Murphy Brown, and Crystal Harris, stomping on a human face, forever. This cup is ours, not to be taken from us. The solution to toxic masculinity is toxic femininity. Women are from Mars, Men are from Penis.

Couldn’t we turn to a good wife (TM) like Patty Blagojevich to lead us out of the pit, since she may not look like she knows what the fuck just happened or where the fuck she is, but at least she’s trying to find the way to something less disastrous? Of course not; she isn’t enough of a public feminist. #ImWithHer. In that case, couldn’t we at least arrange coffee hour with Melissa Ann Shepard? No, again, of course not; Sweet Melissa isn’t THAT toxic. Why go for a femme semifatale when we can get one who celebrated the sodomy in extremis and summary execution of Muammar Qaddafi? No G-man ever ordered Hillary Clinton to stay off the internet. (The Rod Unspared should be grateful that FCI Englewood’s Coffee Hour is #EasyLikeSundayMorning and free of #CanadianContent. #AmongOtherDubiousHashtags.)

In the eighth or ninth year of what is frankly an enduring economic depression, this is the presidential race we get. We get our damnation not in the life to come, but, as Michael Feldman always says, in life as we know it. Jeremiah Wright has had his prayers duly answered in his own time. This is some real Caligula-at-the-Cabaret shit. We’re watching in real time how once proud republics go down in flames. It’s open, shameless decadence, and not in the sense of OMG too much of too many kinds of chocolate in this death by chocolate cake. This is the kind of leadership that brings on decades of tyranny or centuries of banana republicanism.

A healthy republic is more easily preserved than restored, and we’re failing to preserve it. It’s a very bad sign that the current presidential election has been turned into a public referendum on rape culture. There are other fora better suited to the indulgence in a moral panic about rape, but the election is the only one that allows Hillary Clinton to try crudely to distract voters from her aura of scandal, including her history of smearing women who had accused her husband of rape. There’s a special place in hell for women who don’t support this particular woman, you know. #LeanIn, bitch.

One of the indications that the race has gotten really fucking decadent is the specific sort of rape culture that Trump’s feminist opponents claim to find so, shall we say, deplorable. These women never point to Jannie Ligons or Celeste Guap as victims. Those two aren’t white enough, and they definitely aren’t vulnerable enough. Besides, why would a woman want to be raped by a racially mixed group of cops from crappy parts of the East Bay or some Hapa misfit patrolling the Oklahoma City ghetto? These women like their rapists rich, white, and privileged. Brock Turner verges on their platonic ideal rapist: white as Wonderbread, brought up in North Affluenza, doesn’t give a shit about women’s Christian womanhood but also isn’t a trashy bruiser like Ben Roethlisberger or Eminem, so m’lady probably won’t get hurt that badly by his ministrations. For the college woman who’s looking to get gang-banged by the lacrosse team instead of the basketball team for once, there are worse things than a little blind drunk sumfin-sumfin with Blondie behind the dumpster.

No, I do not believe that the moral panic over Brock Turner is free of seedy psychosexual projection, and I do not believe that his crime was particularly heinous or that he is a significant threat to public safety as a released convict. For similar reasons, I do not believe that the moral panic over Donald Trump’s supposedly predatory sexuality, some of which is established only by Trump’s bragging to other men who cherish tales of sexual conquest as a form of male bonding, is entirely aboveboard, either. He’s another rich, privileged white guy, and one whose personal brand proudly features sexual dissolution and vulgarity at that. The sexual impositions that are so upsetting #ImWithHer generally sound like something out of Mad Men or Coffee, Tea, or Me?. (“Would you care for some TWA coffee, sir?”) This isn’t so much sexual harassment in the sense of suing some lecherous shithead into compliance with the law as it is sexual harassment in the sense of a soap opera as VA training video, featuring dead sexy harassers and harassees (what rhymes with “her ass meant?”) and narrated by the Director of Veterans Affairs, seated next to a hearth like a poor man’s Alistair Cooke.

We aren’t just slouching towards gonorrhea. I mean, uh. We’re slouching towards a specific sort of Gomorrah, one in which coquettish tarts with drinking problems arbitrarily accuse men of rapes they never committed as a way of getting even or obtaining undue dating leverage over them. By many accounts, a number of Western universities are already there.  We’re using a presidential election to mainstream this sick culture in which a couple of horny college students who have a poor sense of give-and-take because they’re haphazardly trying to negotiate consent through an alcoholic fog make for a more compelling sexual assault case than Daniel Holtzclaw handcuffing a woman to a bed and ordering her to give him head.

Of course we shouldn’t be trying to work this shit out in a presidential race. But Trump outwitted a dogshit field of competitors in a dogshit party and Clinton slashed and burned her way to victory over a rare reformist, so here we fucking are.


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