At long last a Smoke Signals NO BRAINER
MACACA SPEAKS
MAKE FRAGMERICA GREAT AGAIN
THE BRAND ON TRUMP’S BIG FUCKING WALL

We don't need no immigration.
We don't need no gun control
No evolution in the classroom
Teachers leave them kids alone
Hey! Teachers! Leave them kids alone!
All in all it's just another prick in the wall.
All in all you're just another prick in the wall.

- front page New York Daily News parody of Pink Floyd’s THE WALL – 7/14/16

I was minding my own business – or at least trying to - when this wiry, blue beret wearing, disgruntled mustachioed old-school middle-aged Eurotrash hipster sits down next to me at the bar. About 30-minutes (or two beers) later, he turns to me, breaks my invisible 4^th wall, and in a voice steeped in garlic scented faux Columbian shipped straight out of Humboldt country to Hell’s Kitchen, quite pointedly says, “It is one hell of a time in the old history of growth of history to be a cultural anthropologist, NO?”

Obviously I should have answered his NO with a resounding NO of my own if I didn’t want to get trapped without the right Exit strategy in place, but I just nodded back instead. Though I can’t deny that even the great 16^th century soothsayer Nostradamus would agree it sure as shit seems like one hell’ve time for anthropology. Cultural, and otherwise. But by my way of thinking, the great seer hadn’t quite predicted the specific way things would go down in the end, any more than the multi-faceted clues tarot cards normally give out are interpreted to fit whichever way your wind is blowing. And true, I may not have exactly remembered, much less believed in his prophecies per se, but I didn’t not believe them either. Without getting on a soapbox to serenade the pigeons disturbing the sleeping-it-off drunks & junkies passed out on benches all over Central Park with my opinions, I had read a squib in the Morally Correct New York Post just a few weeks earlier that said the so-called Nostradamus Postdiction Society had claimed one of the prophet’s well known quatrains warned the world about the rise of the beast of Trump, labeling the Donald “THE FALSE TRUMPET.” But leave it to the Post not to grow the seeds of destruction they planted in their bored readers’ gardens, other than to show a 16^th century painting of a burning tower – which the Society was sure was Nostradamus’ way of warning us where Trump’s inflammatory rhetoric would lead us. Not that they were very clear whether the burning tower in the painting represented 9/11 or Trump Tower. Either way, I don’t deny I used to love this kind of wigged-out shit when I was a stoned kid communing with The Great Spirit Mescalito from a mountaintop outside of Woodstock, but attempting to interpret the Ancient One’s cryptic double-talk now seemed like too much of an arcane hippie-dippie stretch for me to make after going through five decades of trying to fit so-called real world historical shit into the cosmic jigsaw puzzle, like Jolly Ollie Stone’s magnificent thicker-than-lard-&-molasses, The Untold History of the United States tried to do.  Which fortunately was when my “new buddy” rescued me from my WWIII angst, suddenly enthusiastically grabbing and pumping my hand like he was jacking butter from a duck as he introduced himself as a former “I Go Yugo” (Bosnian-Serbian-or-Croatian?) freedom fighter turned ex-2016-political-operative who goes under the familiar iconic one name moniker Macaca.

“The Macaca?” I asked, not expecting to get the full-tilt-boogie confession I got just from asking this clown if his name was real.

“The one and only The. Yes, The is Me,“ he says. Then without missing a beat he confesses that just the day before he was “demoted” from his job as Donald Trump’s principal “major top gun speech writer.”

We were squeezed in next to each other on stools, elbow to elbow, putting happy hour brewskis away at Rudy’s, Hell’s Kitchen’s most notorious dive bar. I’d heard much wilder bizarre tall tales than his in there before, had even watched a man who claimed he was the one & only Captain Kangaroo moonwalk back and forth across the length of the dive every Thursday after midnight, before taking off his clothes as a salute to the slumming European Supermodels who hung out there after hours, before walking out the door buck-assed naked into the night. He did this for over 10-years, from the mid-‘80s-to-mid-90s, before the guys with the nets came around looking for him.  Though my first instinct was not to believe a word this Macaca said, I couldn’t deny how convincing a conceit the news of the day after tomorrow he was predicting started sounding the longer he went on.  True or not, the times were obviously flush with Trump synchronicity; the loud mouth turd was everywhere. So it seemed like this Macaca might actually be a real insider, with a true outsider’s perspective.  I pay attention to shit like this, though I’m no political junky. But being that my new friend had immigrated to“Fragmerica”, as he called it,  from whatever Baltic state he had grown up in - he had a completely different perspective on the country’s mainline addiction to HILLARY-TRUMP-BERNIE – THE ELECTION TRIANGLE – THE RUMBLE IN THE JUMBLE – DAILY TERRORIST ATTACKS – OBAMA SCARE, and half a dozen other HEADLINES he assured me were much more than normal Internet diarrhea, but genuine scandals about to break wide open. The strange thing was that not once did he go off on a historical tangent, or mention Nixon, LBJ, Vietnam or the fucking assassinations of JFK, MLK and RFK like foreigners usually do in Rudy’s.  They come here from all over the globe to get drunk, eat the FREE hot dogs and talk about subjects considered anachronisms most other places today, but these long gone hot buttons are still blood boiling fodder for conversations that normally turn into heated debates, arguments and sometimes even fist fights at Rudy’s, a lowlife high minded dive where time is never left behind, except when it’s right in front of you.

No doubt, this Macaca seemed to know his ups from his downs. But after a while it was obvious he had a serious addiction to exploring both sides of the coin at the same time.  Which is “Why”, he tells me, “La Donald originally fall-in-love with my writing, and hire me to write great inspirational speeches for him (even though he does not actually read them himself).  The times,” he says, “are so flush with passions so extreme you cannot make up shit like this,” he painfully laughs, “without the kind of mind-altering drugs that have not been invented, much less co-opted by Big Pharma yet.”  We were on our second pitcher of the house Rudy’s Red, plus a paper plate full of FREE specialty branded and stamped MAKE FRAGMERICA GREAT AGAIN swine dogs he said he had brought to the bar as a gift from Trump, who had instructed his defrocked speechwriter (if he ever “want to get back on the policy tit”) to go out and sell his dogs to dives like Rudy’s (as a replacement, in this case, for the normal, more expensive, but plenty generic dogs the pioneering envelope-pushing bar has been giving away FREE to their customers for years).

“If you can still focus long enough to take in the so-called-news of the day changing every two minutes on the Internet, and then being recapped on the nightly lamestream Network Shill Report, you can almost feel the desire out there on Social Media to erase everything and start civilization over again. Everything you see and hear on the news now is filled with anger, blood, remorse, and out-and-out-hate mingled with threats of revenge emanating contempt for anyone who believes anything different than they do. And because the shills always try to be so fair & balanced as they look for logic behind the massacres going on all over the globe now on an almost daily basis they need some kind of apology for their audience in order to balance the madness of these attacks with some form of sanity outside a civilization living in the world of Mad Max. . .so the whole report usually comes out programmed with a twisted contradictory feel good personality profile or a Saccharine coated disease-centric story at the end – and sometimes, when everything is clicking - both at the same time, in order to make the audience forget about how shitty the world really is now, and at the same time provide a not so subtle reminder how much worse it could be without the latest new prescription drugs being flogged every two minutes on Network commercials from Big Pharma. A process which comes down to a whole lot of misdirection to make a shit load of money from managing diseases rather than taking the chance of putting themselves out of business by actually ever focusing totally on curing them, while filling precious airtime on every channel in the universe with these nightmarish warnings about the dangers of compromising Meds whose side effects are hundreds of times worse than the diseases they’re supposed to be controlling.

According to Macaca, “These are fuckers with capital Fs who have united price fixing together to buy Fragmerica lock stock and barrels. But what these pill pushers do not understand about surviving in an apocalyptic marketplace is if they do not start back-peddling on forcing peoples to either die or support their bloodthirsty windfall profits, someone who does not already have a healthy piece of their action, like La Donald himself, for one fucking instance, COULD, CAN & WILL take the ability to control their pricing away from them once he gets in office. And if they resist doing what he want them to do, he could even go so far as to nationalize Big fucking Pharma without even needing the do-nothing Congress to back him up, by simply enacting legislation without them, by inflaming a whole country that is already against these legally protected pushers, just from loud gauche hourly sound bytes La Donald send out on Twitter – CURE CANCER: GET RID OF PFIZER!  You can bet they will cry ”HOW HIGH?” when he tell them to JUMP! Of course, moron media maggots who object to his Twits, but want to be fair, will not only swallow them whole, but unconsciously reverberate them back out a hundred-thousand-million fold stronger than just letting them evaporate by ignoring them. Because this has become way idiots report news of our world, they have unwittingly become his partners in crime & punishment.  Once they are in, they realize there is no way out and they cannot quit.  But I could. And did. And this is main reason–“

“I thought you got demoted?”

“Fired!”

“But your selling hot dogs for him!”

“In a manner of speaking. . .yes, I am trying. . .because I have to eat too, or drown in my own mustard. This is only temporary state. But whether I was demoted, fired or quit, the one thing I was not going to do was keep writing for someone who keep throwing away my words and go off on his own self aggrandizing tangents like rock falling on his head every time he get an idea, or somebody make fun of him or call him a name like poor little rich bitch whining about not being treated fairly by all the hysterically babbling brain dead media magpies he shit all over. Or the spoiled- jealous obstructionist Republican weasels he only treat like butterflies so he can deliberately rip off their wings. And let us not forget all Crooked-Sloppy-Hillary do-gooder assholes infiltrating New York Times, Washington Post and everywhere else that can still pretend to offer actual readers more than dum-dum bullet points before the old counter puncher Big Bully call himself, lose patience with process and go into a blanket attack on all his enemies, living and dead, one beat before (though he always claim it one beat after) they hit him first.”  Macaca leans over towards my stool and whispers to me, “Just two days ago he promise me he going to stop complaining every time he feel wronged, by publicly blowing himself first.”

“What?”

“Caught you sleeping at wrong wheelhouse, my man,” he laughs, as he signals the bartender for another pitcher and some fresh Trump dogs.  “Blowing himself just a another way of bragging how fucking great he is, which he is just as addicted to as bitching about not being treated fair.  Macaca seriously doubt if Trump can even realistically reach his dick to actually blow himself, much less see it under that suit hidden gut of his.  But to his credit, the son of a bitch does not have a problem with words, since he only have 12 in his whole vocabulary he is comfortable using in public.  Maybe that low bar is why his supporters identify with him on one hand and jerk off deifying him with the other? Being for Trump and being Trump are one in the same; pure onanism. And why they are not offended is because he tell them flat-out they jerk-off better than anybody in world can ever jerk-off watching him blow himself better than anybody else can or will ever blow him or them either. If anybody ever deserve to be forced to watch and share La Donald getting GREAT blow-job every time he manage to drag self off Twitter, it is GREAT-GREAT really wonderful jerk-offs who support him, and are finally, thanks to him, discovering what has been missing from their wretched lives before he arrive like so,me kind of  Jim Dandy to the Rescue to Make Fragmerica Great Again.”    

“I buy your metaphors.  Or at least most of them.”

“What don’t you buy?”

“That crap about making America great again.”

“Fragmerica.”

“Ok, whatever?  But when was the last time whatever you call it was great?”

“Good question, my man.  But there is not one simple answer for everybody. It depend on your point of view. For some people it is having your own two-headed baby on cover of National Enquirer. For others, it is the day they marry their mother from a past life. You could say it depend on when last time your home town team win World Series or Super Bowl, or NBA title.  Or the day you get whatever specifically get you off when you least expect it. I try to get him to clarify answer, but he insist the more people know the less they can remember.”

No doubt, it’s hard not to be sarcastic or make fun of Herr Trump and his so-called rapid followers. But Macaca, who got profiled Big Time in the mass media several years ago, after being singled out of a crowd by former Virginia Republican Governor George Allen running for re-election. Though happening went viral on Social Media and became a favorite source of what people in the street think about low life politicians, Macaca finds that kind of approach too easy and not very funny on the face of things either.

Ok, a little background as I try to leave put-down humor out of the Equation for who’ll make the least dangerous Commander-in-Chief we can elect in this cringing new world of apeshit radical Islamist terrorist suicide bombers, extreme apocalyptic weather crises, and the constant economic and social instability which are all part of the new nearly-normal we’re stuck smack dab in the middle of these (end?) days.  Trump may be viewed as an embarrassingly bad joke, without a punch line, in the middle of all the other worldly chaos going on, but he’s not totally a novice when it comes to buying and selling politicians, as he pointed out during the primaries. And though we haven’t seen him in action ourselves and only have his not very good word for it, he’s obviously been negotiating both good and bad deals since he got out of Warthawg U, and his old man loaned (sic) him enough chips to buy and refurbish The Grand Hyatt for a piddling of what it was worth. Though he obviously (legally) dodged the draft like a lot of young men of his generation, he’s been winning and losing wars forever, since he treats every buffoonery that comes out of his mouth and he gets involved in as he would a war, just like getting his Overcomb just right before he sets foot in front of a camera. Though he doesn’t seem to have the patience needed to strategize on anything more complex than signing off on the layout of his golf courses.  Be that dirty little tee-shot boogie as it may, once upon a time ago he did in fact go to Military School, before sleazing his way out of the draft under that old flat feet floozy Trump card. Though he’s obviously another one of those guys who’d invoke General Douglas Double-George Armsrong Custer Patton MacArthur to send other people’s sons off to do the dirty work he wouldn’t do himself.  That said, I guess it’s not hard to tell right out front that I have not had much, if any, use for this loud mouthed putz for the last 40-odd years he’s been crammed down the throats of the national media mucus. So in defense of the adopted faux neutrality I’m trying to adopt to squeeze out as unbiased a piece as I can do on him, in an irreverently sacred screed like this, I confess my early dislike of Trump was not personal, political, social, classist, or any other classification you could think of, or call discrimination – I just didn’t like the asshole hanging around. And still don’t. Though, like it or lump it, his present incarnation has not only got my attention, it’s got my addiction to see what the asshole will do next working overtime too. And the odd thing about it is, before La Donald started running for Prez, I didn’t even dislike him enough to know what I did or did not like about him, even when he wasn’t hanging around. He was just too irrelevant to even consider categorizing on that level, since he was considered nothing more than some rich publicity-hungry douchebag selling his lowest common denominator bad taste to pathetic get-rich-quick wannabe shit-flies buzzing around the glitz of his (real or not) inherited Fuck You (Scrooge McDuck) money, honey.  As simple as that.

Though none of you who at least paid part-way attention to what boringly toxic liars the 16 career stiffs opposing him for the nomination were, it still must come as a surprise to see a loose-lipped radical clown like Trump as the presumptive nominee of any party, particularly the uptight conservative archaic out of touch Wonder Bread Republicans.  But it’s not that La Donald came out of left field to steal the bacon from his fellow goons either, since there’s a long well defined tradition that rascals, rouges and pure low life scumbags have been coming out of forever.  It’s just that nobody’s ever taken it as far from its barely legal source as he has without ending up booted out or thrown in jail first.  If you believe we deserve good old P. T. Barnum’s There’s a sucker born every minute dictum as our logo as opposed to his bullhorn bullshit Make America Great Again, you must consider the Flim Flam Man as one of the noblest romantic occupations in the Fragmerican canon.  Not quite a minstrel, a roofing salesman, or an analytic statistician operating on the Zeitgeist like a psychic Ventriloquist trying to decide whether or not to become the second coming of Senator Joseph McCarthy, or just a top-of-the-wood harmless dummy like Charlie McCarthy, feeding the rubes their daily blarney stone sandwiches.  What he is, and they aren’t, however, is entertaining. In a lame Vegas sort of way. Circus Olay, Seigfried & Roy (before Roy got killed by the tiger), Fat Elvis singing Christmas songs, Penn & Teller, Wayne Newton, that cute little mouse…None of it may be your taste, or mine either, but it’s a whole lot better than watching or listening to one note johnnies like Jeb Bush, Carly Fiorina, Chris Christie, Marco Rubio, Ted Cruz – unless he’s going to admit the Lee Harvey Oswald card Trump flipped at his father’s feet was as true as J. Edgar Hoover refusing to admit the Mafia by any other name existed while being on their payoff perk payroll practically his whole bullying corrupt career.  So, Trump’s campaign has solidly worked its way up froma lifetime of two-bit lizard lounges all the way up to The Big Boom, grounded in an audience friendly tradition of giving us unforgettable characters, from good old reliable Nathan Lane playing Nathan Detroit to Johnny Carson assuming the persona of Carnac the Great, telling us, one way or another, Don’t blame the booster for what the sucker does, before stealing the bacon right off our plates, and in the next breath, trying to sell it right back to us at quadruple the price as the latest mock Trump brand of the Emperor’s new clothes that is being made especially for him by some GREAT WONDERFUL little underage kids in third world countries, for pennies on the dollars he will charge us for them. If you consider salesmen America’s honorable unsung heroes, Trump fits the mold; no matter where he is or what he’s in the middle of, whether he’s hondeling steaks, real estate deals, ugly ties, suits, his bogus University scam, and who knows what other mediocre overpriced shit he’s stamped his loathsome top of the dollar brand on.  Obviously he’s a virtual fountain of bad ideas that don’t come close to either living up to his self-proclaimed genius “GOOD BRAIN”, or growing his mountain of small potato bottom line victories into a mole hill that isn’t masquerading as one of his golf courses either.

Macaca thinks the most interesting thing about any of the Mickey Mouse shit La Donald is selling is that he considers the fate of each and every one of these ideas just as important as whether or not he’s elected President of the United States.  “More & more it seem apparent as much as he want to win election, just because Winning is what ‘a Winner like him does, it really does not look like he wants to waste next four years of his life after bathing in glory of the glory of that winning feeling by serving anyone or anything but his own brand, even if he is elected President.”

When you stop to think about it, it makes the kind of sense that gives me shutters in the middle of the night that the next President of these un-United States will be selling schmattas on the Home Shopping Network to the rest of the world. From there on, there’s just no telling what an asshole like Trump will consider a great trade deal for the people of Fragmerica, as opposed to the business owning wheelers & dealers who are the only ones who could ever actually cash in on any of these job stealing deals, no matter who’s in charge of running the country. So no matter what he says about his great business acumen, other than plastering his name on anything he could get a piece of and sell under the auspices of his brand, more than a few people in the know are convinced the only reason Trump ran for office of President in the first place was to promote his more than likely sinking like a rock in the glop of depressed business enterprises.

Obviously the future President of Fragmerica can put his name on a lot more products & projects than a struggling real estate developer in a weak market.  It’s a scam worthy of The Magic Christian’s Guy Grand.  Though there’s no great or small lesson on the back end other than he got you, just because you were stupid enough to be got. On an even further out literary level, the character of Trump probably more represents Catch-22’s mercurial Milo Minderbinder turning one absurd deal after another - just short of selling the cliché of ice cubes to Eskimos - into indefensible but profitable catharsis, rather than Atlas Shrugged’s tight-assed John Galt holding up Ayn Rand’s highfalutin morally bankrupt game plans for entrepreneurial exploration.  A creature of instinct, not reason, himself, this comparison may be as close as the one dimensional Trump will ever get to reading a novel, much less a book of any kind, if nothing else.

Granted, this circus has come a long way backwards, forward and sideways, since mundane La Donald first got under P.T.’s umbrella at good old Warthawg U and learned at one of the great models of contradictions in the bogus history of business as usual integrity how to explore and exploit what classic American personas he could cop from the Zeitgeist and adopt as his own – all the way from Big John Wayne to charming-always horny on speed JFK.  The object of his vision quest was always to morph those and other iconic characters he admired into his own limited shell of a poor little rich boy from Queens into an International brand the world would instantly recognize and relate to, thanks mostly to all the free flowing Trump cards he has plastered his name on in almost every physical manifestation of his image that could be stamped with the cosmic KILROY WAS HERE message, in lieu of having anything with a deeper meaning behind his name than he was HERE, THERE, EVERYWHERE. . . So like him or not, even I’ve got to give it to him that once his brand was under every whoopee cushion on the planet nothing could stop the asshole from giving his unasked-for-opinion on every subject under the sun he didn’t know anything about – first by impersonating his own Public Relations flacks quoting himself to whatever low level media contacts he could scrounge up – and not just because as Macaca swears, he was too cheap to pay someone else to represent his points of view – but because he was and still is too controlling to trust anybody else not to fuck it up when he can just as easily do that himself and claim he didn’t, so it stands to reason (though reason probably doesn’t have much to do with his meta megalomaniacal obsession to shoot off his big mouth either), the only way he, originally being from the outer boroughs of the planet, could pull off his Manhattan celebrity charade to sell those “masses” The Ancients always referred to as “asses” was to have the built-in ability not to listen to himself change his own ugly outer borough Huntz Hall accent into pure tough guy Cagney for the ages.  Yet even after the success of that stylistic transformation he still didn’t have any substance to fill his facade with, so obviously his Presidential emergence caught most of us who have never taken him seriously by surprise. The shot-out-of-the-blue turd in the punchbowl we weren’t expecting has never quite allowed us to be able not to listen to him like we didn’t listen to him before he emerged from being a hack Reality Show flak to a genuine candidate to Make Fragmerica Great Again by further destroying the already badly battered multi-mortgaged world his tunnel headed M.O. helped create.

Even after suffering a full year of this worthless (shouldn’t be allowed to be profitable) election shit, the mindless media magpies still don’t recognize that all Trump’s doing is going back and forth between playing a classic WWE hero-villain in the same way The Undertaker or The Rock used to play their characters for the stooges. Without a doubt, his core audience thinks of him as one of those hero-villains too, though to him he’s more like a James Bond figure in a different time frame than the wrestler character he’s appropriated, ‘cause, if you hadn’t noticed, as Bond he gets to wear a suit. . . Lots of suits.  He has so many different suits he probably takes his showers in suits before changing to different suits (How many times a day?).  But whatever private self image he’s hiding from us or pushing on us, obviously his public one has knocked most people’s universal joints  a bit off kilter just from the addictive daily non-stop babble-on of his media bytes. Though that doesn’t stop his audience from equally cheering him on every time he either calls out one of his opponents or shoots himself in the foot.  Or even steps in a pile of dog shit first.  It obviously makes no difference to his supporters whether the attention he gets is negative or positive as long as he gets it all centered on him. In that regard he’s as much of a genius as Muhammad Ali was for adopting and adapting himself into his stated role model, the 1950s-60s superstar wrestler Gorgeous George. That’s a comparison worth a standing boovation from The Champ‘s undying fans, but Macaca immediately saw the genius and talent it took for Trump to use pro wrestling theatrics in the debates as a strategy to torture the staid culturally ignorant fools he was running against.

No doubt, whatever he says, it’s hard to take Trump seriously since the language he uses is so pedestrian it’s almost the kind of pop-pap any so-called ordinary guy can mindlessly understand while he’s blankly standing in front of a urinal euphemistically bleeding his lizard. He may or may not have ever taken a drink of alcohol, like he claims, but if you know your drunks out there the way the bartenders at Rudy’s do, you can see he’s the perfect personality portrait of a dry-drunk. Just picture La Donald’s familiar headlines shuffling up visions of holiday greeting cards mixed with his best sound bytes as punctuation beats stirring up his supporters’ blood and filling their empty heads, while quoting freely right out of his paper of record, the sleazy supermarket tabloid National Enquirer – which he always uses as a source for the facts he hears that people are talking about (like Ted Cruz’s father’s dubious involvement with Lee Harvey Oswald).  And of course the fear mongering blame he lays on his enemies with each new terrorist induced attack he drops out of his mouth like proudly well-formed “really great-GREAT” BOMB TURDS landing in direct hits on the shuddering white bread segment of the fear filled population that find themselves magnetically drawn to the inauthentic six degrees of separation from genuine authenticity he’s selling to them (that the others are not), whether or not they’re turned on or off by his exact message of the moment or not. Just knowing how it’s going to piss off the smartasses who hate both him and them is enough for them. In a time when the dreck is obviously stacked up higher against most of the world than his BIG FUCKING WALL ever will be, it’s open season on extenuating the differences between people’s belief systems. And since, in a country whose major strength is that the major similarities between people are their differences from each other, he’ll never run out of targets to attack.

Obviously by the time we’ve finished the third pitcher, Macaca believes Trump is nothing more than just another lowest common denominator bore who will be elected the next President because he understands that for some inexplicable reason his dumbassed attacks on terrorists sneaking into the country as immigrants hits so close to home plate without actually scoring, his reasoning is not considered boring itself, and, hit or miss, is given the same Point with both his pro and con audiences as a Leaner is in Horseshoes. Let’s face it, no matter which side of the political fence they’re on, everybody, whether they admit it or not, basically has some variation of those same fight or fight thoughts and images passing through their overloaded heads, like uptown and downtown trains regularly crisscrossing each other every hour on the hour in the underground darkness of the city’s rat infested subway tunnels.  Whether or not there’s a voting majority of non-rats out there who will sanely blow those ingrained but not unreasonable prejudices off as not only improbable, but inappropriate to the Fragmerican condition, remains to be seen.  Either way, Trump not only steps over the lines of those issues he paints down the center of the highway every time he erases the option of civilized conceits to solve the world’s problems, because he also erases the lines themselves while hard selling the concept of saving the very civilization his ideas will most probably help destroy with solutions like his BIG STUPID FUCKING WALL and barring immigrating Muslims from entering the country.  Macaca believes both of those doozies are obviously nothing more than preludes to reenacting WWII internment camps sometime in the near future. To make matters even more contradictory on that same embarrassing core, Trump’s pathological lies often sadly reek of a lot more truth than anybody else he’s running against’s so-called truths do. All traditional pols seem to be able to babble about is their own transparent self-serving ability to balance never-balanced-budgets that invariably put us all to sleep. Hear that Jeb? Which of course is why they talk about them.  And it doesn’t matter whether they’re on the national, state or local levels, since most of the time, it’s not until years later it’s discovered that all the money was stolen out of whatever budgets they were supposedly balancing. “That,” according to Macaca, “is not only the hidden history of Fragmerican economics in a nutshell, but a litmus test for Fragmerican logic: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me; fool me thrice and we are permanently comfortable having our gullibility fucked inside out as long as they don’t take away our Remote Control.”

Be that unreported usually uninterpreted truth as it is, Trump doesn’t have to worry about what he says, since he knows the safest position for him to take is making nothing off limits in his attacks.  It only took 15 years for the Trump One to be the Only One to publicly call out the W One for lying about Weapons of Mass Destruction and tell us and the conservative bubble boys why their party’s President got us into the Iraqi War.  Republicans almost universally shit in their collective panties on that one.  Whoa! Wait a minute now, hoss! You can’t talk about that One in public, Trump One! That’s one’s our BIG ONE.  And it really was. The Big Lie ONE of way too many lies to count. And Trump really was only One short gimme putt away from publicly stretching that ONE out to the Bush-bin Laden families long time business connections and talking about the plane we all heard was sent from Washington that secretly picked up every one of the bin Laden family living in Fragmerica right after 9/11 and returned them to Saudi Arabia while nobody else in the country could get on a plane to go anywhere.  Not only they, but we held our collective breathes waiting for Trump to drop that ONE on them. That he never did was not an act of mercy or generosity, since he got so close to it they knew he not only had it, but would use it on them if they pissed him off enough for him to go BOMBS AWAY on them at any other time he wanted.  What makes these attacks so theatrically juicy to an audience is that they are not only obvious, but obviously personal, not ideological, since Trump has no ideology to speak of, other than Winning. When they work, they are purely materialistic, since the people who support and idolize him are one dimensionally that way too. And what he says is just so flat out potentially criminal that if they said the same things about him as he says about them you can bet everything you’ve got he’d sue the shit out of them all the way back to the stone age. He’d tie them up in court until hemorrhoids came out of their ears. This is how he takes care of business; the old fashioned CRUSH THEM if they get in the way WAY. And since things in general are so topsy-turvy in the world now, anything goes.  That’s his fucking leverage!  And there would be a hell’va lot to admire in his execution of it, if we only knew what side he was on.  Much less, if we knew whether he was a good guy masquerading as a bad guy, or a bad guy masquerading as a good guy.  Or should we label this pathological liar a sociopath? as Tony Schwartz, the (real) author of his smarmy The Art of The Deal pseudo autobiography recently did, though he knew the blowhard would sue him for saying it. Or is this fear slinging bully covered coward a full bore casebook psychopath, at least one rung above Jack the Ripper on the big fame-o-meter in The Hall Of Shame closet? Or better yet, a Twitter addicted Manchurian Candidate waiting for his orders to detonate Democracy for his drunk-with-revenge-on-the-system followers, under the guise of building his misleading brand in whatever piss poor pockets of power are open to being slimed by what his brand name allegedly stands for?

These are fair questions. He would whine they are unfair. But why should we be surprised at whatever this embarrassing, vengeful trustafarian twit says, does or turns out to be, while “sacrificing” every bit of dignity the self proclaimed “King of Debt” has (obviously borrowed from somebody somewhere - without paying the loan back) just to entertain us?  Thankfully, he’s neither piously religious (enough for Evangelicals), if religious at all, if you don’t want to count almighty dollar as his God.  Nor are his aesthetics devoutly atheistic, agnostic or soulful enough (for intellectuals, hipsters or Illuminati) to qualify as a genuinely serious candidate for the good ole Anti-Christ role -  though ironically Christ was his father Fred’s middle name - so delusions of grandeur, if not respect, were built into him at birth.  I have no doubt if the media magpies took a poll to find out who was considered the worst scumbag in the Universe, this obsessive-compulsive fuck-up would claim he was leading his good buddies Kim Jong Un and Vladimir Putin to the slimy-dripping-gurgling with puss pinnacle of the mother load of scum itself. One can hardly even imagine how he would go about building his Big Stupid Fucking Wall for less than (pissing-away)-a-cool-couple-of-trillion (on it), much less his plan to get rid of radical Islamic terrorists, other than trying to buy them off, like he tries to buy everyone else off - usually with someone else’s money, no doubt. . .His plans on how he’s going to handle the major problems facing the next president are so vague it’s hard to even guess what comes after he transforms the old Pennsylvania Avenue Post Office building into the Trump International Hotel, across the street from the White House. If elected President, does he move his royal flush family into his hotel instead of The White House, like some outer boroughs version of The Beverly Hillbillies waiting for the legacies of all who lived in the big house across the street before him to be exhumed, fumigated and permanently eradicated while redecorating and renaming the first family’s home Trump Hall? Or does he continue to go global and open The rump Kremlin in beautiful, but stark raving mad Moscow, with free Trump borscht and vodka (paid for by the state, of course) for the guests he gives a different rental discount to for each room? Unfortunately it’s too late for me not to count the tasteless ways he already has utilized his brand in the past, much less even guess how he will continue to layer his classless & clueless bad taste in the future. But because of some bizarre likeability factor built into his DNA, I’m not even sure whether Macaca’s Soapbox Serenade will come out more for the shit La Donald shoots out of his loud mouth than it’ll come out against it.  And what’s scary to most nearly-normals looking for a Temporary Autonomous Zone to navigate out of is they’re not sure whether Trump knows either.  And that’s exactly what makes the gauche condition his condition is in not only so gross, but so fascinating at the same time.  None of us can deny it sure would be a boring election without him.  So like it or not we have to acknowledge, no matter what any of us actually think about him, there’s no getting away from the fact that the big bimbo does have (bipolar-esque?) talent.  It’s just hard to pin down what the extremes of his highs and lows are good for when they go off out of control, other than getting him the attention he constantly craves as he continues his lifelong occupation of scamming anyone with similar materialistic values out of their last dime, if he can.  The Big Question is would be possible to harness just some of that poisonous brand of his to selflessly work for the public good, instead of his private Trumphood?  Could the potential of his up-to-now non-vision be that Olympian to bet on him on-the-come? After all, he is surrounded by ideological Nazis by any other name. Like it or not, those not so Magnificent 16 he stomped the shit out of in the primaries are his home team. And like it or not, we have to admit he has and continues to single handedly destroy them every day. That act alone gives us a lifeline of hope that there are enough non sequiturial glimmers of exceptionalism shining through their plaque covered mediocrity to ask whether La Donald’s through growing or not? Bobby Kennedy, who was once my political hero, was a putz of the nastiest attack rat dog kind in the beginning of his Joe McCarthy period. But over time his attack dog learned and grew and evolved into a real human being from his own mistakes, until he was a pure inspirational vehicle of progressive transformative energy by the time the ubiquitous They took him out of the game. We know right now outside of La Donald’s Ego’s obsession with Winning with a capital W, Trump’s working blind. Which may be our only chance to escape down the rabbit hole.  If by some lovely twist of his antenna, he sees that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, maybe he’ll be open to discovering what else he doesn’t know. Maybe he’ll come to the fork in his road that forces him to choose between Winning and greatness. He might have a character arc- which means he’s not only a character but finally has a chance to have character, character that cannot only cover the entire spread he needs to see himself, but to see us as well, and forces him to digest all the fragments in the whole arc too. Not out of any sense of altruism, you understand, but just to find out what it feels like to be him. Though in that process of digesting the arc he’ll discover what it feels like to be us too.  The lights will finally go on in Palookasville!  The polls say people finally love him - for all the right reasons too.  Before this the polls said they loved him - for all the wrong reasons. It’s hard for him to tell the difference, but he really does love those polls!  They usually assure him of his identity - tell him not only where he is, why he is and who he is, but what he’s doing too. But now that he’s absorbed the arc, even though it’s not totally clear yet, he at least suspects there is a difference.  If he takes all the energy of our joint arc inside him, he not only gets to discover who he is, but become himself for the first time in his life, and then, hopefully, instead of wanting to beat every one else a new asshole, as his lifelong credo demands, maybe he’ll want to live up to his “great” hype and elevate the rest of us too.  Or maybe not. We still don’t know which fork in the road he’ll choose, so everything is still in a big state of Maybe.  And of course, not a maybe you want to bet on if you have shit for brains, since up until now he’s been faking it. Faking it for so long it’s definitely a long-long-long shot that our shared arcs could ever merge. But if they miraculously do, for the first time in his life he might experience an overwhelming rush of empathy so strong he might just become a different person. A real human being, in fact.  I know-I know, this is either starting to seem like plot for one of those stupider than dumb Adam Sandler heart warmers, or an old time Preston Sturges classic, though I’m not exactly sure where the plot is going with either one. The only thing I am sure of is, as much as I love the goofball, Sandler’s not a candidate to play Trump, because, while, in the non stop hustle of La Donald’s spiel, it may be - as funny as anything we’ve ever seen before - this one just doesn’t feel like a comedy.  It’s funny, but even with someone like Opera Man playing the title role in the lead, it’s more moving & pathetic than just a comedy.  Though it could be the long lost awaited sequel to It’s A Wonderful Life.  How’s that for 50-50 non-partisan positivity, George Bailey?  But who am I kidding, outside the glimmer & glamor of Glitzville, it’s definitely a Hail Mary for the rest of the world if Trump gets elected.  Let’s face it, let’s confess, let’s be absolved and resolved all in one fell swoop: He’s the Prodigal Idiot we’ve been waiting for to dismantle the system and free us to face our own freedom. And not quietly either. On the other hand, Hillary Dickery Dock will basically be invisible to our free floating anxiety.  No angst on our time line if she’s in charge. Once upon a time ago, she and her pretty boy President hubby Bubba destroyed what existed of the liberal base of the Democratic party, in almost the same but opposite direction Trump has destroyed the conservative base of the Republicans.  But with Bernie guiding, pushing and tugging Hillary’s sell out policy rudder to higher ground, she appears to be safe now.  Or at least safer than Trump.  And will probably be too busy copping whatever takes her fancy from wherever she can get it to cause any real damage to the country.  We know what she’s going to do. But of course, she’s too arrogant to get away with it.  She’s too sloppy to get away with it.  Which is why even people who like her and are going to vote for her, can’t stand her.  Look, no one begrudges her whatever booty she’s chooses to cop, but it’s not cool to make us watch her get caught fucking-up again. Though it’s really no big thing to us.  Certainly not the crime slime bags always indignantly want to make it.  But then it never is with Hillary.  Living on the verge just adds up after awhile, and she’s been a long way over that after awhile for an excruciating long time by now. By this point the only sympathy she can even engender in the Universe is to calmly stand back and manage the game when Trump loses it and starts calling her names, then gets blatantly caught lying about her lies.  How’s that for an ugly Win-Win, sports fans?  It’s no wonder Trump thinks they’re out to get him - which they are -(and for good reason); by this time he’s driven us so crazy WE ARE ALL OUT TO GET HIM!

If anybody knows better than to side with someone who’s not even capable of siding with himself, it’ should be Macaca.  Trump not being able to apologize for anything he says or does is a perfect example. Not apologizing appears to be the one fast hard rule Trump doesn’t change until he (privately-publicly) weasels on himself, usually in some faux intimate one-on-one make nice setting that has been created to illuminate some hand picked beaten down or soon to be beaten down flack like Meegan Kelly turned out to be, but you can bet Macaca it won’t be long before all of the magpies’ positions on Trump’s positions will change, even when Trump changes his position first, and they find themselves against what they’re for, while he’s solidly for what they used to be against at the same time.

If you think that flip-flop’s funny go back and count how many times it’s already happened. Most people, unless they’ve got something to protect or hide, would say truth of any kind has been such a long fucking time coming in any fucking shape or form, especially in the media, government or corporate worlds - even if those truths materialize out of the kind of blatant lies Trump can’t help trolling out there just to see what kind of reaction he gets from them - they’re grateful for it, even if what he says strips them bare. Obviously, as more sheep eventually baah-baah-baah down to those lies, he’ll make them his new truths. And if he’s elected, ours too.  One of his great advantages is that just because of the very simplicity of those contradictions he puts in-play, nobody of reason on either side of the aisle ever expected other people out there would relate to Trump’s dumbassed lowest common denominator WWE self aggrandizing fear-mongering more than the rest of the lowlife Scumbags’ pandering rationalizations for promoting trickle-up-Socialism for the fabled one percent’s 98% of everything they can get their grubby hands on – just because it’s there, and that’s the only thing they always do because not only have they been bought but they are too unimaginative to come up with anything but the same-old same-old trickle-down piss-on-the-man & woman in the street hustle they’ve been using to rip their dumb as dirt constituents off forever, promising them a Reagan ticket to ride while their they’re trying to get reelected, and then as soon as they’ve secured their foxhole, reenacting the classic ride of The Scorpion and the Frog for them, before delivering that old killer GLUG-GLUG Death Valley Days sting they’ve promised them all along.

Maybe because Mr. Gauche so specifically caricaturizes what’s ugly, crass and ostentatious about the ugly American suit, even if the slowest brains don’t get or like what he has to say, they always recognize it is coming from Boss Chump and are entertained by what his persona’s either become or what his street ghoul ability is to intuit what blood his audience wants vetted, while no longer considering themselves the losers Trump always will consider them to be, because now Trump is personally going to teach each and every one of them how to start Winning for a change. However different or the same that scam is from good old Trump U.  Or whatever that scam costs the rubes who think he’s on their side. ‘Cause whenever Trump talks about Winning he’s not talking about his audience Winning anything but the opportunity to pay up and blow him ’cause they’re too stupid to do anything else, which is why he always hypothetically includes them as part of the Winning he’s talking about doing in trade wars, manufacturing bases, market shares, all the things, in fact, that ordinary citizens are never going to be helped by no matter which despot is in charge of the bogus economic statistics both sides keep quoting like a good old reprogrammed Mortimer Snerd dummy in order to fill their pockets and bolster their bogus positions of authority. Something all Fragmericans should cheer on, even if they’re not – and they’re not – getting cut in on the action that the big neon blowhard Overcomb is promising each and every sucker looking back in the mirror at the caricature of Trump looking back out at them from the gimme-gimme-gimme part of their adulation.  No matter what they think, his character is not THEM, much less representing THEM, in any shape or form, except for the segment of undying wannabes who want to be rich like him. . . who he doesn’t think of as anything but pissants to be taken advantage of at a later date, after he uses them to get elected. Maybe in theory that’s no different from how any other politician operates, but because almost all of THEM sure do see more of him looking out at THEM from the tv, Internet or their devices than THEY notice themselves looking back at themselves from an actual mirror, he has become a representative embodiment of the kind of Underdog Everyman they see themselves as  – these are the same ones who the lamestream media magpies who cover every dumbassed thing Trump says or does like it’s actually news, talk down to. On the brighter side of the darkness he promotes, this is the price of ogling the genius on the other side of the curtain who’s ripping THEM off in every way he can every day, because that’s just what he likes to do better than anything else, except whine about it when it doesn’t work and blow himself after it does.

Instead of the ranting and raving about getting beat by his system, by this time we know we should all be grateful for him letting us watch him take us off, almost like the legendary rock manager-accountant Allen Klein let the Rolling Stones watch when he ripped them off of every last cent they claimed they had  – but at the same time taught them the priceless lesson of how to make sure they would never get ripped off by anyone else ever again. That’s the false bargain of Trump University (like he’s going to teach the marks who he gets to sign up to get rich just like him without leaving them the inheritance his Daddy left him?), if not the mission statement outside looking in at the obvious hlow level hustle he’s chosen to share with his loyal sucker fans.  Why he hasn’t been hung until he is swinging by the neck in the lobby of Trump Tower already probably has more to do with him being subliminally so familiar to the American condition he seems like a cartoon combination of Mr. Bluster (from Howdy Doody) and General Bullmoose (from Little Abner), along with the 21^st century political pariah of Southpark’s Eric Cartman, all of whom are both smarter & stupider than his so-called constituents, but obviously never really as smart as Mr. “GOOD BRAIN” thinks he is. If he thinks at all, instead of relying on the lazy man’s intuitive guide to Entitlement that he’s been riding his whole silver spooned life.  Nobody, and certainly not the Republicans, are going to tell La Donald how to be a Republican, if they’ve got shit for brains. He’s also not someone who’s ever had to figure out how to win on his own, since because he started with such a huge stack of Daddy’s chips and behind the scenes help to help him play whatever sucker he was playing, losing has never been an option (though there’s no telling how many times he fucked that one up), though he’s only had to trust himself to get by without ending up face first in some gutter that his germaphobic corpse wouldn’t be caught dead in at the same time.  The bark and quick trigger bite probably comes from a monster inferiority complex about it all being given to him that his blowhard’s managed to keep hidden from his supporters – and even from himself — most of the time, since even he must know that great Fragmerican heroes don’t have trust funds; they’re self made men (even though all Fragmericans wish they had a trust fund of their own; and given the choice, would take that trust fund over the hero’s self-made-man working-himself-up-the-ladder shuck & jive journey), self made men just like Trump isn’t and never will be. That belief he can’t shake is probably what’s driven him to try to crush everything in his path just because that’s the closest destination between two points, whether those points are A & B or T & A that he’s ogling along with the nondisclosure form he’s made the new Ms. Universe sign before his tiny-clammy-hands put a cheap imitation crown on her head.  Sometimes what he does even works (in the media), and sometimes (like when he wrecked and abandoned all his partners in the USFL because he couldn’t get his team in the NFL without them, at a cut rate buy-in price) it doesn’t.  And if it doesn’t work he knows how to move on to the next thing he thinks will. But don’t think for a minute that even though he lets the losses go, he ever forgets them, and wouldn’t quit the Presidential race for ownership of even a bad NFL team, like Buffalo, if one were suddenly offered to him at that cut rate price he needs to jump back in (without thinking) at the first chance he gets for revenge.  That M.O. could explain his being stupid or smart enough  (like a 21st century fox) to come down on the controversial side of almost every subject that comes out of his mouth, even when he doesn’t agree with it, much less understand it himself, because doing it this way is easier than a taking a True-False test, even when you already have the answers written on your wrist.

As tempting as it is to buy into the conspiracy rumor that his whole candidacy is part of a deal he made with Bubba Clinton to destroy the Republican party (Mission Accomplished?) and elect Hillary President, he’s such a selfish prick it’s impossible for Macaca to see him doing anything for anyone but himself, no matter what the payoff is for him on the back end. “I don’t know why I like him, because this guy is not only a pure rat at heart, but a double-crosser who’s M.O. goes crying to the Principal every time it looks like what he has floated is going to sink him.”

Macaca may know where La Donald’s always coming from, but I don’t; the question I have most often about Trump is whether or not he’s on the Offensive or Defensive at any given moment. It’s hard to know when the guy himself doesn’t seem to know until whatever-it-is comes out of his mouth. The never-right cable pundits who think he can’t win in the long run because he’s got nobody around him who can stop him from sticking his foot up his ass and pulling it out his mouth as he so often does to publicly showoff flossing his brain, don’t take into account that people like watching him get in and out of situations as much as they liked to watch I Love Lucy or the anvil Wiley Coyote plans to drop on the Road Runner come down on his own head instead. Watching a bad guy bring himself down is a subliminal cultural magnet, that not only attracts, but mollifies the urge the man in the metaphorical street of his bedroom has to get off his ass and do it to them himself.  So just deciding to keep on yapping is a lot easier for Trump than trying to decide when to shut up and when not to.  For instance, on the other side of that yammering big mouth, right after the Orlando nightmare, he got both Hillary and Obama to utter the words “radical Islamic terrorists” in the same day.  Ultimately it means nothing at all to anyone but him (and his supporters), and it shouldn’t, but the asshole got them to say the words they refused to say just to explain to people why they shouldn’t say them – until they did, just to shut him up.  For whatever that empty victory is worth to the even emptier kindergarten heads out in Trump’s sandbox keeping score, everyone including the statistical walking brain-dead knows that he beat them into submitting to his will. And even worse than that, the more you hear him keep repeating those same words over and over, there’s a side of even the fairest most functional mind out there that as low life horrible as what this shitbag is saying about profiling, borders, terrorism, trade wars and his BIG FUCKING STUPID WALL, that at some point it sounds to the under-constant-attack innocent naked ear that what the asshole’s saying does sort of make. . . some sort of. . . not-quite sense, but sort of something. . .  And once something sort of makes any kind of anything. . .admit it or not, it’s a lot easier to consider buying a ticket, even if you don’t know where the fucking train is going.

That emotional bait & switch, according to La Donald, is not a very nice comparison of what he does, but anybody who talks about being nice as much as he does obviously has been warned from childhood on to be nice. Probably by his (saintly?) mother, who we’ve never heard him a utter more than a few obligatory words at a time about (Did Young Oedipus want to sleep with his Mommy the same way old Oedipus wants to sleep with his daughter, or what?), as opposed to constantly talking about his tough real estate developer father, who not only taught him every trick he knows, but, from looking back at old photos of him, coincidentally shows himself to be a dead ringer for the cartoon villain Snidely Whiplash. So it’s probably no coincidence Fred Trump was accused of a lot more heinous acts than Snidely tying Mary Ann whatshername to the railroad tracks. At one point his father showed how cool the aesthetics he passed on to his son were by allegedly trying to turn the actual amusement park section of Coney Island into a housing project, but fortunately for kids of all ages he was blocked by both Zoning laws and the newly elected Mayor John Lindsay. He was also charged (but never convicted) with overcharging veterans for subsidized housing (which explains La Donald ‘s attraction to helping our wounded warriors), as well as being charged in 1973 by the U.S. Justice Department of refusing to rent apartments to blacks before they were known as African-Americans, and then accused in front page allegations in the NY Times, among others, of running up millions in overcharges on a government funded housing project, not to dwell on some vague, lurid association with the KKK – which would explain his son’s reticence to denounce support from the white supremacy bad joke, who’s Grand Dragon David Duke came out in support of his candidacy. Those two words – be nice – are probably buzz words he uses to keep himself from exploding, though he could just as easily use the buzz to implode at any given time too. Which means, even if it seems like he doesn’t know what he’s doing (since his highest intelligence naturally reacts and plays off what everyone else around him says or does), he’s got everyone so off-balance-spooked by his seeming lack of balance, they’re convinced at least once a day it looks like the moment has finally arrived that Fraido is finite-O for good. Which means La Donald’s got US exactly where he wants US, looking at him escaping his latest foot in the mouth fuck-up like he’s some kind of Zen YO-YO master walking the dog behind his back and through his legs, up his crotch to grandma’s house he goes - for a sandwich, while doing his lame singing dick ventriloquist act about all the fat ugly evil snake like women who’ve called him a sexist pig because he won’t sleep with anyone not as good looking as him. Much less his wife #3.  Nice or not, on this shallow level he’s a harder act to quit looking at than Lucy or Wiley Coyote. In fact, though he’s not nearly as aesthetically pleasing, watching him is less like watching them and more to me like watching Stephan Curry’s amazing pre-playoff multi-balled warm up handle dribbling 50 balls at a time before sinking a blind over the shoulder half court shot out of his ass at the buzzer while holding up his own cuter-than-your-kid kid to the tune of Sweet Georgia Brown.  And if you don’t relate Trump to that wholesome act, or sports aren’t your cup of Trump Tea, you can always change channels in your head and watch the kind of bloody 24 car pile up killing all the passengers in a blazing fire at a rest stop on the Jersey turnpike that his butchassed buddy Chris Christie was about to name after him, because La Donald can perform an act of destruction just as easily as Steph dribbling 50 balls at once, if he wants to, though he knows better than anyone does that if that’s what gets you off you’ve got some work to do on yourself. “GET ‘EM  OUTTA HERE!” is what he’d say about you.  Not to even go into what he’d say about me.

Macca thinks I better be careful with my compliments here. He’s heard from people in  the boxscore that Trump has a habit of suing you if he likes you. Ain’t that nice? The 3,500 or so losers that he’s sued in the last couple of years are all great people, the very best on the planet; he only sued them to teach them a lesson. The best kind of lesson. Being on Trump’s lesson list will eventually be as honored a position as being on Nixon’s Enemies List, particularly if the lesson he taught the sacred 3500 was to join together and file a multi-million dollar class action suit against him for harassment, created by the best pro-bono lawyers money can buy to get his money away from him before he declared bankruptcy again. Would he play that hand if it were on the other foot?

One of the hidden questions Liberals are most afraid to ask about Trump is Is this guy purely the mirror-vehicle we’ve been waiting for to view our own monsters? He’s the genie out-of-the-bottle of Liberal guilt. And after that analytical cul de sac is traversed, Macaca says “They want to see how he stack up against elected professional whores pushing their own agendas in Congress? Compared to them Trump almost seems noble, even if his whining opposition to use of nuance to criticize his pedestrian ideas will be in danger of becoming a Politically Correct crime if he gets elected. And using relativism to compare him to anyone who is not superhero, FORGET IT! That is just another form of blatant heresy insidiously wheedling its way into overwhelming dumbass of Fragmerican unconsciousness that will be outlawed in future. There is more than one reason he admires dictators like Putin and Kim Jon un. Just don’t ask Trump what borders of his taste are if you want a Politically Correct answer, since he can’t build A BIG FUCKING WALL around it, what the fuck does he even care what the question is as long as he can react to one-side-or-the-other of it passionately.  Passion is key to getting elected for him. I am not sure of a lot, but I can tell you one thing for sure, when it gets right down to issues, he obviously does not know jackshit about almost anything outside of his umbrella of influences, which makes it easy for him to embrace and be embraced by a block of blockheads who know even less than he does; so bonding with pious sinner Evangelicals is a marriage made in Trump Heaven. Even if being a player who always covers the spread when betting on the action of business, politics or love, he is not naturally loyal to one position or another, unless it fits into what’s right in front of him. Which is why, in the sanctity of their own God-will-forgive-them for their inherent corruption, the religious zealots forgive him for straying, as long as he occasionally throws them an I BELIEVE bone, while simultaneously terrifying them by flirting with global warming, his old pro stance on abortion and promises to revitalize the economy (while making a fortune, whether he’s in office or not) rebuilding the infrastructure of the country for the first time in over a hundred years.  Which of course still doesn’t answer question, “What’s going to happen to La Donald if despite everything he does, he fucks up his life more than he fucks up ours by managing to get himself elected President?”

Everything being equal, which it’s not, nor has it ever been, it’s not fair blaming world events for who gets elected President. But when you have the two most disliked candidates in history running against each other, the odds are pretty good the world events they attach themselves to will most likely have more to do with who gets pushed over the finish line than their piss poor personalities do. True, disadvantaged minorities still will have a better chance of getting fucked-over in a war of property under Trump than Hillary, but both candidates have been blessed by fate making decisions for them that don’t require them to experience the fight or flight syndrome until years later when they’ll probably get caught in some absurd Al Kapp type lurid scandal that they can’t buy their way out of. Are they being cheated out of life lessons that only Class Warfare can teach them? None of us even want to think about going down that road unless the nearly-normal fix we’re all in is reversed, and what’s going to happen is worked out in advance by a flip of an old double-headed George Raft coin-of-the-realm that would make a movie gangster proud, even if his cultural references have no relevance to the situation at hand.

Obviously there’s only so much control any of us, even Chump the MagnificO, can have over our own lives, but that doesn’t mean we’re helpless and need to shut up and do nothing about life’s inequities any more than he does either. Which may not be the exact type of ennui that pushed La Donald into running for President after his bid to buy the Buffalo Bills fell through, but it is why, believe it or not, someone like Trump destroying what now exists as the bogus electoral process, is as good for Fragmerica as destroying the EU is for Great Britain (or not?). Hard to tell which, on either, at this point, but whether you think La Donald’s a bozo joke, a deranged demagogue, a flawed fascist libertarian, or fear that the general disgust-with-politicians-factor could have finally gone one step over the line, sweet Jesus, and will actually get the gauche know-nothing asshole elected despite himself, Trump is shaking up a status quo that doesn’t give a shit about anything other than surviving itself, while knowing it should have been blown to Kingdom-come long ago. So Macaca, speaking for the man and woman in the street, offers kudos to The Big Overcomb on that score. “Whether La Donald turn out to be right or wrong, he is bound to shake up, if not blow up, world as we knew it – not know it; because we don’t recognize it anymore, thanks mainly to a set of circumstance created by the Social Media revolution that has little-to-nothing to do with him per se – except that his antennae embrace it like some great shiny new thing his Toad persona has been searching for his whole life. So if by some curse of our fate the Universe allows him to get elected, the future will more than likely allow his skills to blow the whole thing up more than fix anything as necessary as the country’s infrastructure, or getting rid of radical Islamic terrorism, much less evolving instead of further devolving race relations, or living up to his biggest promise of bringing jobs back to Fragmerica and saving the economy from vampire robber barons like him, if he doesn’t get his way. Or even scarier, if he does.  This is how fucked up things seem in the WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS PICTURE caption almost every time he opens his mouth and lets fly off the top of his head, instead of reading speech on the teleprompter that I write for him.”

We all know the old saying, If it’s not broken don’t fix it.  Well it’s obviously BROKEN. The whole fucking fabric of ciivilization is BROKEN. What’s the right cliché here to allow you to roll your eyes and change the channel? How about – and I apologize for the obvious in advance – If it is broken, fix it.  How do we start?  Where do we start? It’s not only the infrastructure, it’s not only the bridges, tunnels, protecting the electrical grids, or fixing the rigged electoral system, or fixing the rigged economy, it’s not only improving race relations to the point where race isn’t a factor (outside celebrations to acknowledge our healthy differences) in relations, much less updating the outmoded Constitution, getting rid of the dysfunctional obstructionist Congress, or coming up with a much better (not lifetime appointment) system to select Supreme Court Justices. It’s figuring out how to stop the apeshit suicide-bomber terrorists from blowing themselves and us up in airports, restaurants, movie theatres, nightclubs, bookclubs, sex clubs, anywhere where innocent people gather to do the right or wrong things. Macaca believes “You cannot fight World War III against mashugana swarms of gnats. The only way to reasonably stop madness of terrorists is by using technology to create same type of devices as Remote Control systems we use to change channels and turn off tvs and computers,. Just point and CLICK to recognize, pinpoint, and disarm all types of bombs. Obviouly specifics come later. Don’t laugh, this is good. It is easier putt to make refocusing a system that already exists lnto a new system that can turn off and deactivate any type universal trigger than waiting for terrorists to blow up 18 innocent golf fans on 18^th hole of The Masters.”

We all know the twits running for office always say they’re for “change” every time there’s an election, but nothing seemingly ever changes except the amount in their pockets or hidden bank accounts. Considering how much in the system is broken it’s actually amazing that anything works at all.  There are so many broken people out there in the world there’s no way to help all of them, Though Macaca says, “Someone like Trump might try, by creating Trump Camps to separate one type of problem person from another. Picture rounding up all pedophiles and keeping them in same place,” he laughs. “Trump make them pay for being there too. His 21st century version of Playboy Club.  I know that’s not very comforting, but it is just Politically Incorrect enough to allow Trump to crow.  Or is it?  Obviously, Mental Health system in this country is so left behind in hypocrisy of bottom line progress it would be redundant to declare something that’s never worked as anything but hit-or-miss. . .pharmacological prospecting. No one know right now how we can fix the next Flip-out shooter from going off on a killing spree before Macaca’s Remote Control Deactivator is ready to go into action stopping suicide bombers before they take out a shopping mall in Libya or a nursery school in suburban Virginia.“ Despite his belief in a tech solution, even Macaca doesn’t have a clue how long it’ll take to even create a time line for his Remote Deactivator to work, much less how to implement them into the culture the way the laws are presently written either.  “If Trump were talking about working on solution like that, or even laws not allowing terrorists to buy guns, instead of his BIG FUCKING DUMB WALL there’s no doubt he would overwhelmingly be elected our next POTUS. But the truth is La Donald just doesn’t know if he really want to spend next four years working on anybody’s shit but his own.  He’s capable, but he’s incapable; that’s dichotomy of flipping the coin if it actually has two sides to it.”

Right now, without a tech answer on the horizon, there isn’t even a chance to change our homegrown American brand of Russian Roulette until the cowardly bought gun-lobby shills riding the even more cowardly congressional tit stand up to the NRA and their lobbyists and begin – not taking away guns - but legislating common sense registration regulations, no more oppressive than getting or renewing a fucking driver’s license, which, despite my favorite Founding Father Thomas Paine’s prescient essay of the same name, obviously does not provide a solution to stopping these random massacres from happening until some Flip-Out show up in Congress and take out at least a-baker’s-dozen of the nitwit whores in one fell swoop. Is that what has to happen before common sense begins to be legislated by these worthless shitbags again? In other words, do we have to make it a law that it’s against the law for the media to ever mention Flip-Out shooters or Terrorists by name again – in order to get rid of the guiding carrot of notoriety these sick fucks are chasing for the glory of their own fucking mad bloody glory?

In that regard, despite hating to admit Trump’s right when he says, “We have amazingly stupid or corrupt people in charge of almost everything,” that’s the way it seems to most everyone who isn’t on the take.  Of course, in the next breath, Trump blows the capital he’s just gained with this agreed upon observation – because his father raised him to know who protects the Robber Barons’ property from that time when he invariably pisses one group or another off so badly that even The Patrolmen’s Benevolent Association won’t protect him from a group of his one time supporters finally coming after him for cheating them, in what to him is not personal, and no more than the evolution of some childhood game he’s been playing forever.

It may be needless to say, but Macaca has to say it anyway: “Look, man, I don’t wanna take away anybody’s rights to blow anybody else away.  This is Fragmerica the bountiful. We are a country of cowboys & Indians and cops & robbers, the whole legacy of our history is about shoot’em ups as solutions to our problems. Look who our heroes are. We don’t like to be fucked with anymore than Billy the Kid did. Be that as it may, I’m not advocating hitching up your holsters before you go to the movies or take your kids to school like dumbassed La Donald suggested we do either. . . All that idea shows is the obvious idiot side of the 13-year-old-Trump, convinced-he’s-a-genius because he can incite a lynch mob to action. There’s another side of the Trump persona that really wants to be Tony Soprano dreaming of some low level scam like burning down a warehouse of Chinese lead-based kiddie toys he’s earmarked for Special Needs children - in order to collect on a fraudulent insurance claim and save the kids he’s about to fuck over at the same time; and that’s about as heroic as I can imagine La Donald ever getting for the rest of us, even if his character isn’t nearly as bad as Tony on one hand, or as well liked on the other. In fact, he is not well liked at all. Unless you compare him to Hillary. Or he’s paying you.” And then, according to Macaca’s own personal experience kicking in, not always then. “He unfortunately has a well earned reputation as someone so arrogant and cheap he would rather cheat people than pay them for whatever job he’s hired them to do for him, because he sees that as part of his job of negotiating Winning.  The real sad part about that part of this is that people he rip off are mostly the little people who pick up shit for him, take out his garbage, bring him his lunch, write speeches for him and are so thrilled not to be ghettoized by him they almost feel honored voting for him to fuck them over, as long as he fucks with those smartassed media fuckers who they think fuck with them every single day of their lives. And on the other side of the coin, it is no accident he was recently endorsed by America’s most popular piece of shit, Martin Shkrell, the 32-year-old aspiring Robber Baron, hedge fund scumbag and pharmaceutical CEO who was selling marked-up-1000-fold cancer drugs to potentially terminally ill patients who couldn’t afford his shit.  Maybe Shkrell will replace Cory Lewandowski as La Donald’s campaign manager?  He is perfect for job, really.  But what do I care?  I’m not bitter.” The most Macaca can hope for is that in that fictional universe the nonexistent Tony might have gotten a laugh out of that one and then had someone like Big Pussy whack both of these turds, while we get to watch the real Soprano bad guy we like become the good guy we need to take care of business for us. . .the business of preserving the civilization La Donald has, if not in fact, already destroyed, then threatened to, in what’s left of our collective imaginations. “

Let’s face it, while at heart Fragmericans as a people may love to party, according to Macaca, “We are total prudes about preserving ground under our feet.” I think Trump might be able to dig that image himself.  He’s reputedly cube-square squared, though he is Tony street smart and plays out of the box as much as he can, since in the beginning I hear his saintly mother wouldn’t allow him to play in the box at all.”  Billionaire Shark Tank star and Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban, who may be the anti-Trump in-waiting to run for President himself some day was probably right when he said that Trump was funny, but has no sense of humor, was creative, but has no sense of imagination and is probably worth a whole lot less than the billions he claims he is, no matter what magic numbers he pulls out of his not-as-rich-as he-claims Cat-in-the-Hat asshole. But according to Macaca I’d better be careful with compliments here, since he hears from people very close to Trump that Trump has a habit of suing you if he likes you. Ain’t that nice? The 3,500 or so lucky losers that he’s tied-up-in-court in the last couple of years are all great people, the very best on the planet; he only sued them to teach them a great lesson. Being on Trump’s list will eventually be as honored a position as being on Nixon’s Enemies List, particularly if the lesson he taught the sacred 3500 was to join together and file a multi-million dollar class action suit against him for harassment.”

And as long as we’re going where no chickenshit has dared to go before, lets take on Trump’s use of so-called Social Media here. Of course, if you think using Social Media to twit out is a waste of time, but think it can be used to talk young Islamic boys and men out of joining terrorists organizations like ISIS without understanding the lure of running away to join the Never-Never Land circus of guns, sex, cars-trucks-tanks that is an alternative to what their normally drab lives were, you don’t understand the street Macaca lives on. “If he don’t understand having freedom to not only thumb their noses at authority, but stick authority’s noses up their own asses before wiping them, he does not understand the rush that attracts them to terrorism. So if he cannot accept that reality, he might as well join the Boy Scouts and be prepared to give himself a merit badge for self-abuse. These kids – and no matter what evil they’re committing in the name of Allah — they are stupid kids who know nothing but what gets them off in their limited worlds. If they’re not stopped and reprogrammed soon, you can bet that Trump’s idea of going after their families will be put in play to stop them from raining pain down on anyone who doesn’t believe what they’re told they’re supposed to believe. They’d flip their corks if they realized how tightly controlled and manipulated they are – but for the most part that won’t happen until they start getting their asses kicked and have no way to escape by blowing themselves up with their double edged Big Bad God on their side.”

To this point, young Islamic terrorists have been over-empowered, getting off chopping accused infidels’ heads off without fear of reprisal or even the gnaw of their own innate hidden consciences rising up out of the ether and calling them out for their inhuman cowardly acts. But make no mistake, before we go off on what causes their righteous heinous tirades, there’s nothing quite like a good riot against the powers-that-be to get young blood boiling. Don’t quote me on this, but if you’ve ever heaved a canister of tear-gas back at the police who shot it blindly into a crowd you were innocently walking through or standing in, you know there’s nothing quite as liberating as the feeling of resistance.  In fact, you could get the same kind of feeling of exhilaration from grabbing a fly ball caroming off the right field wall and in one motion pivoting and throwing the runner out at third base. Which is why Fragnericans play and watch games. But real action you’re personally involved in is at least a hundred times more of a rush than what you watch. It’s the kind of rush that either kills you or makes you want to feel it again, like a gift from the bored pissed-to-the-bone godheads, the fucking tear gas canister bounces in front of someone like our fourth world buddy Macaca, and hits him in the knee or the chest and disrupts his entire sense of equilibrium. Most likely forever.  Certainly forever, if he picks the fucking thing up and throws it back at them.  “It’s just like the 70-year-old Trump blasting out his Twitter attacks. Once he does that he knows it feels a hell’va lot more liberating than issuing a Press Release or talking to  fellow blowhard Bill O’Reilly. On most days it’s even better than hitting one out of the park!  Or nailing a three pointer from beyond the half-court line to win the game at the buzzer. And if by chance you notice all the references to sports here, it’s because subliminally games are what riots are to the boiling young bloods who just a moment before were entrenched in the waking slumber of wondering what to do next to escape what they’re doing now. Because generally speaking, what riots are good for is waking up the sleeping unconscious beast inside! Waking up the energy of Let’s get it on! Because once that energy is on, we can only get it off again by fighting the never-ended Civil War, the never-ended Vietnam War, the never-ended Iraqi war all over again. . .because, as Macaca says, “Once it is on it is ON, motherfuckers!”

Though by this time most Americans on both sides of the coin would say FUCK IRAQ and the mission bungling nincompoop George W. Bush rode in on, and the carrot out in front of the mule’s head leading him towards the Holy Land of the future in the distance that Barack Obama rode out on.

According to Macaca, “If Western powers are ever going to realistically compete for the hearts & minds of potential young terrorists’ attention they better not be offerin’ ‘em no merit badges. They better not be tellin’ ‘em what they think is the right and wrong way to deal with world. They better not be tellin’ ‘em what to do with their lives in certain situations they’ve never had to relate to themselves. They better be sellin’ ‘em some fucking FUN! They better be offering’ ‘em a better, more righteous version of what attracted all the burgeoning young Macacas to run away from home to join the big bad fucking circus in first place. They better be offerin’ ‘em the same package as the terrorists are offering, but a hell’va lot better, especially if you want them to change teams in midstream. They better be sellin’ ‘em a reality that’s a hell’va a lot more fun than the joy of jerking off into their socks, or trying to convince them to look forward to a future of more rules, regulations and supervision to make them serve the ruling system of schmucks better when they grow up. To make them better at serving the bosses who rule the worlds they’ve grown up in.  Every runaway knows those promises are lies, even if they don’t know the 92 Virgins waiting for them in Paradise are an even bigger lie. True, the authorities making those promises of cosmic pussy don’t always know they’re telling them lies, because, after all, their front men are so brainwashed to follow orders themselves, they’re just doing everything they do by rote.  Thinking will come later, but only if they live that long.”

Obviously anybody can look the lies up on the Internet if they don’t believe me. We can all find out the biggest lies in history simply by asking the Great God Google what they are. There are hundreds and thousands of lists available. You may not recognize the lies on these lists and ask how you can know if the people calling these things lies aren’t lying about them themselves, because there’s no real official vetting system for all the new information pumped out to us on a daily basis On Line. I have younger colleagues who keep asking me questions about how things were in the 1960s – as a ploy to make comparisons to events happening in the present have a historical handle they can grab hold of and understand in some sort of context that makes sense. While their desire for similarities is understandable, for the most part they have to know relating events that happen today to events that happened in the past for the most part don’t work, despite whatever similarities are dredged up from information found on the Internet.  For some reason they not only believe that the comparisons do work, but these events are now governed due to the integrity of the Internet. What they don’t realize when they talk about the similarities (they crave) is the differences are more similar than the similarities are between then and now. You can compare anything, but despite the seeming romanticism of appearing on, say, Nixon’s Enemies List, it might not seem as romantic to appear on Trump’s List today. That idea sounds as bogus as the NFL does when they talk about wanting to protect the integrity of the game. The only integrity they want to protect is the integrity of the flow of money into the billionaire owners’ pockets, which not so strangely enough is the only thing you can compare to the past. They always want to protect the flow of money, and not coincidentally enough, so do you and I to a much lesser degree, until some strange new working form of Bernie Barter comes along to replace the old outmoded stacked ways. As all the great detectives in all the great mysteries of life say when they’re talking about finding answers, “Follow the money.”

If Macaca had his druthers, the entire cost of a so-called college education, including tuition, housing, food and mucho beer would cost the same ballpark – less than a grand a year it cost him a hundred years ago – for everything, including twice a month treks to the $2 whorehouse down at the end of lonely street.  “Those numbers sound unbelievably low now,” he laughs, “but there was no integrity attached to the way the system was set up then, it was just what the value of a dollar was worth at the time (gas 18-cents a gallon, cigarettes less than 12-cents a pack, hamburger, French fries and a Coke for lunch closer to 50-cents than a buck, I shit you not), but as soon as those prices started to inflate, the system did too. It had no choice. It may or may not have had more to do with integrity then than it does now, but if it was it wasn’t intentional, and if it wasn’t I can’t swear it was any more conspiratorial than any other random MacGuffin out there. There just wasn’t a whole hell’va lot of integrity by any other name out there. And unfortunately it’s just a wounded bird these days, and if it flies at all, it flies as a sales tool for some asshole like La Donald’s low level Trump U scam.  Or even some self-proclaimed genius like Steve Jobs beating his own team out of their rightful shares of the collective booty they created for him under the banner of preserving the integrity of the fucking product. And so when I seemingly trash that word, that doesn’t mean my young friends don’t have real integrity, or want to live in a world that has real integrity, they just don’t know what real integrity is since they’ve just never experienced it in action except when they look back at all the noble exceptions to the corrupt rule of law protecting those scumbag Robber Barons’ fortunes. The best example of pubic integrity I have is Muhammad Ali standing up to his draft board and daring the Supreme Court to put him in prison for refusing to serve in their Imperialist War in Vietnam – and even the noblesse oblige of that act itself is much more inflated after the fact of that rare victory than it was during the process of getting there itself.  What Edward Snowden did is the closest thing this generation has to a Muhammad Ali.  And eventually, Snowden will be known to what’s left of the left as the major nail in Obama’s failed legacy, if the President doesn’t get his ideological head screwed on before he gets out of office. These exceptions have always taken place in history and evolved into inspirational legends to unfortunately fuel the unrealistic belief that we’ll all be saved by some non-existent super heroes the morons in Hollywood keep dumping in theatres to inspire the hopeless with their lame old bottom lines. The over dependence on these blockbusters is already destroying the cache of feature films as a genuine art form.”

Whether there are, or there aren’t a lot of people on the Internet whose lives, work and actions are steeped in integrity today is another MacGuffin hiding human nature from the innocent rubes waiting to be plucked out there, since there is just no way anyone can tell who they are or what their motives are (if it’s not being on the grift) other than by using your own instinct. What we do know, or should know, is the truth will not set you free. But it will remove the wool from over your eyes. And that’s a good place to start. Seeing is believing, But seeing Trump is not necessarily believing the same thing.

Though I want to bury my head in the sand when I say Macaca and I agree, barring major cosmic intervention, we both see Trump becoming the next President, if he doesn’t get ambushed by his own party or temperament first. At this point, the less said about Hillary the better. If I had my druthers she would run the country, even if it was from from inside a Federal prison, and that choice would still make more sense than Trump. But what you do with what you believe is up to you. The Founding Fathers realized that choice was the major weaknesses of Democracy, which as Ben Franklin defined it, was “Two wolves and lamb sitting down to vote on what to have or lunch.”  As the normal Trumpless political conversations in Rudy’s usually go when going back to the early 60s, back before JFK was even whacked by the dark forces that decided killing him was the best and safest way to take away the power of his rat dog double-crossing trying to put them out of business Attorney General younger brother – before coming back and killing their priority target at a safer, less-protected date (five years later, when Bobby was running for President himself), back before young Macaca had even arrived in Fragmerica, and began questioning the system he had been adopted by (as much as he adopted it), back while he was still a hungry trapped kid dreaming of that wild, vague, worth-dying-for conceit known as Freedom, they were looking to shut him up behind the Iron Curtain, in what was then called Yugoslavia. He didn’t know where to go or what to do, but was told flat out by the only Comrade he knew with anything slightly resembling integrity, “You can’t hide from them, Macaca. So if you have to ask which way or where to go, I can’t tell you anything, except RUN!  And keep running until the fuckers either get you or you get away to come back and fight them again another day.”

You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.