It's been a darling weekend for
our pulp-fed Fauntleroy of the
fascisti, minting thugs in his
image. It began with nativism in
lower California against a judge
for releasing sealed documents
in one of the lawsuits against
his hilarious, defunct diploma
mill, in compliance with a FoIA
pleading from The Washington
Post. Then it was on to biker
heaven, the Rolling Thunder
ritual in Washington, to boast
how he'd polish our virility,
making us so tired of winning.
Lissen up, now, people ~ as only
the inimitable Gail Collins may
say - we have a Rosetta Stone of
the man's entire universe, saved
in a single super-secret volume
on his boyhood's sticky syllabus.
What distinction may we draw,
to begin, between the child's
festival with his genitals and
his morbid grasp of maturity?
We wrack our brain to fathom a
farthing's worth of difference,
unless it is a telling anxiety,
from the contempt for the cuck-
old to the fixation for the bim-
bo, from fantasies of the nym-
phomaniac to the eroticisation
of the gun - and all, may we ob-
serve, "for men," a stature he
plays with furious resentment.
Have you received one of his Rol-
ling Thunder tweets on the per-
sistence of the Murder Caverns,
slanty slopes seducing dopes in
our very own organs of gov?
At what hour did he emit it -
please check? We need to dia-
gram its proximity to his Play-
ing Doctor tweets, which tend to
herald his longest showers. Even
then, who can know the throes
tormenting him, on Flight 17,
nubility distending him, fu-
tility upending him, soon to
fly as spittle from the brit-
tle little griddle of his mind?
Alexander Calder
Color lithograph
on paper
1965
Los Angeles County
Museum of Art
Earl Norem
Pulp Cover Art
Action for Men
July, 1967
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