Descending Colossus
Happy birthday, asshole.
It’s not surprising that Donald Trump has a lot in common with ancient Roman emperors. He likes making big, beefy statues of himself. He likes being surrounded by opulent palaces. And he likes overseeing mano-a-mano action in an arena of his making. He shares the ancient Roman desire to be seen as a big strong man — it’s the same crisis of masculinity that’s been passed down through millennia like a bad gene.
Blame it on the Knicks winning the NBA Finals (our modern knights in shining armor, coming to our psychic rescue!), or blame it on the 80th birthday of the hideous meatbag in the oval office, but I’m starting to get a little bit optimistic.
Not only is Trump’s time almost up, I feel pretty good about our chances of surviving him intact.
For one thing, this silly, rent-a-fighter bday spectacle on the White House lawn will soon be a laughable presidential footnote, like William H. Taft being buried in a piano crate. In fact, in future times, when archeologists excavate the bright blue reflecting pool, or the east wing of the White House, or the port-a-john that is Mar-a-Lago, they will find little physical evidence of Trump. He has cheap taste. Unlike the indestructible pedestal that held Emperor Nero’s 100-foot bronze Colossus, nothing will remain of Trump’s pathetic attempts at immortality. These paltry scraps will be easily subsumed by the natural world, and the will of the people. His shit-ass ways are no match for the cultural kudzu of the world itself.
Today, we should all celebrate Trump’s 80th birthday; it means he’s going down. His decline is already apparent, but each day brings us more quickly to the end. Democrats may do their darndest to confront him; we stomp our feet, and shake our fists in outrage! But time is Trump’s greatest enemy. And time cannot be bought.
In the big adult diaper that is Trump’s future, we can begin to hope for better things for ourselves. I picture church bells ringing, Wicked-Witch-is-dead type stuff. Munchkins dancing, fireworks, gatorade dumping. If NYC can fill the streets with a glorious dance party, imagine what the entire country will do when we’re released from this hellscape? (Anyone want to go in on a disco ball?)
And all this may happen sooner than you think!
Starting with the precipitously steep set of stairs on Air Force One (see photo: above). If he insists on going down this slippery slope alone (see: big strong man, also above), let him! This particular scenario helps me fall asleep at night: a fat, frail man in leather-soled Florsheims on rain-covered airstairs. It could happen!
Other things that could happen: too many chicken nuggets, chicken nuggets in windpipe, collapsing chair at executive desk, executive pen mishap, Melania gets fed up, Melania fires back. His physician, the esteemed Dr. Barbabella, makes any number of critical errors. This is an open list and I welcome your contributions.*
The ruthless Emperor Nero didn’t foresee a future where he’d be declared a public enemy by the Roman Senate; he never dreamed his bronze Colossus would be re-fashioned as a sun god, moved by 24 elephants, and ultimately melted down for scrap when the empire fell. He thought it would stand forever. (The masculinity-crisis gene lacks predictive reasoning, but we knew this already.)
So don’t despair. On Trump’s milestone birthday, I say we celebrate! Pop open a bottle of bubbly and toast to our future. It means we’re that much closer to living in a world without him.
* What scenarios help you sleep at night! How will you celebrate when the house lands on the Wicked Witch? Do tell! xox
There are so very many dumb ways for that man to die so what I'll leave here is my deepest wish for how he WON'T die: Peacefully in his sleep. May it be painful, dignity-destroying, visibly disgusting, and humiliating.
Oh I’ve got one… Stephen Miller goes too far while choking Trump in a wild sex act. J6 rioters revolt and drown Miller in a gold toilet. One can dream and thank you for your attention to this matter.