Trumpty Dumpty Falls

What a great gift landed on our virtual doorstep this past Saturday morning as we celebrated my husband Max’s birthday and the 6^th anniversary of The Bonobo Way (my gift to Max on his 2014 birthday): the fall of the Big Angry Egg, the official electoral defeat of the Monstruous, Maskless, Pathological Lying, Child-Caging, Racist, Sexist, Grifting, Noxiously Vulgar, Grossly Incompetent, Pussy-Grabbing, Reality-TV-Forged, Science-Disdaining, Oligarch-Fellating, Climate-Change-Denying, COVID-Killing, Nepotistic, Narcissistic Nazi Mango Mussolini, Big Bully (Yet Big Sissy) Presidunce!

Yes indeed, Trumpty Dumpty had a great fall… complete with egg on his spray-tanned face.

The predatory Trumpus has had America in a chokehold for four long years. Now finally, we are free (or so it seems)—on Max’s birthday!

Apparently, our voodoo worked.

Not that we really *believe* in voodoo or any nonscientific methods here in Bonoboville. We’re not the tRump White House. However, out of sheer desperation and Coronopocalyptic boredom, we have been trying various voodooistic practices. Actually, we started as soon as his greasy ass slid down that escalator, creating a tRump voodoo doll, then spanking and slapping it to the point that now, his bloated face, baby mushroom and fuzzy pink balls are torn up almost beyond recognition. We also put his big shithole mouth “under gag order” with various oblong objects, including a dildonic pacifier, an ear of corn, the Forbes edition Stormy Daniels used to whacked him, a water pistol, Jeffrey Toobin’s Zoom Dick and a jumbo bottle of bleach.

We also spanked, pegged and infantilized various brave tRump human surrogates, held Russian Hooker Pee Parties with Dominatrixes Against Donald Trump (D.A.D.), all while chastizing Trumpty Dumpty for his mendacious “malarky” (Biden wins cutest throwback word of the campaign, beating out his own vintage “record player”) and monstruous moves, causing Post-Trump Sex Disorder(s) of various strains. Indeed, our fantasy roleplay psychodramatic tRump-whacking sessions have provided a rather effective form of much-needed therapy for me, Max, our guests and some members of our audience, though it has also horrified, triggered and pissed off many others.

Regardless, we kept at it, and the “final straw” in our relentless onslaught may have been our unconstrained Smashing Trumpkin(s) session on the Halloween Blue Moon at my Speakeasy in the Big Easy, capital of American voodoo. I know, all these ritualistically spanked dolls, smashed gourds and cracked eggs sound kind of like the Satanic Panic that some say made Hillary lose in 2016. But I did it anyway, and it seems to have had the desired effect. We won!

This, along with the more staid efforts of millions of Americans—from progressive but pragmatic Bernie Bros like me to annoyingly conservative Republicans like the Lincoln Project—united by our simple focus on smashing Trumpkin (metaphorically, of course, don’t get too jacked up), has finally climaxed in triumph.

And yes, it’s rather orgasmic—dance parties exploding spontaneously on the streets from DC to Havana while couples like us join together in erotic celebration of this historic moment.

Joseph Robinette Biden, Jr. has decisively won the 2020 U.S. Presidential election in the popular vote and the Electoral College. Yes, there are the counts, recounts and the count of Monte Crisco (very slippery), but whichever way you toss your ballots, Donald J. tRump is the loser.

Three cheers and a bonobo beer for America! Millions of us have joined together to end the Trumpocalypse terror and loathing. And Amen and Awomen to that.

This despite Don Jr.’s screechy girlfriend Kimberly Guilfoyle offering a lap dance to the biggest donor to her boyfriend’s dad’s campaign, more fully embodying her promise that “the best is yet to COME.”

Not that Tyrannosaurus tRump admitted defeat, of course. Not this Presidunce. It’s a classic Trumpish case of being too conceited to concede. And he is the Loser-in-Chief. He will make all of us sore with how sore a loser he can be. At least, that’s how it stands as of this writing; Trumplesthinskin’s decisions are as wildly erratic as his golf swing.

Not that anyone takes his claims seriously—except his 70,000,000(!) diehard cult followers who would guzzle whatever Kool-Aid their dear leader offers them, topped off by mean Mitch McConnell and several other disconcertingly powerful and utterly unscrupulous tRump rump-lickers in Congress.

Trumpty Dumpty “had a great fall.” Will all these Senatorial “King’s horses” and Supreme Court “King’s men” manage to somehow put Trumpty Dumpty “together again”?

Then there’s Rudy Ghouliani, still in his Halloween costume, holding an “electoral malfeasance” séance in front of a Trump/Pence papered-over garage door at Four Seasons Total Landscaping, between a crematorium and a sex shop, now with its own VR Chat World, complete with frolicking furries.

Is this just a joke? Or a joke covering up an attempted coup?

As Jeffrey St. Clair observes, the many futile lawsuits are being mounted and funded mainly so the Trump Crime Family can grift off them like always. Someone should check the moving truck before it pulls out of the White House driveway to make sure they aren’t making off with the silverware, that Andy Jackson painting or the nuclear codes. They can have those garish gold drapes.

If anyone has been more resolved than me to send this carnival-barking “cafone” packing, it’s Max, so this is a great birthday present. People were asking him all day if he liked their gift (tRump losing).

It’s also a nice win for The Bonobo Way. Love Trumps Hate (at least for this moment in time), and the Bonobo Way of “peace through pleasure,” sharing and caring trumps the brutish power of bullying, division and deceit.

It’s also a prominent step up for the Bonobo Way of female empowerment featuring a powerful female Vice President, not to mention a “mixed” woman of color (Black Jamaican on Kamala Harris’ Dad’s side and Indian on her Mom’s). Biden’s horrible war-supporting, Wall Street-fellating record is the opposite of bonoboësque, but his “healing” message of inclusivity and his personal, “sensitive male” demeanor is, at least, closer to the Bonobo Way than Proud Boy Trumpanzees (with apologies to real chimpanzees who are pretty cool, though not as cool as bonobos).

I’m proud to say that, as the vote counting went down to the wire—Trumpers screaming to “Count Every Vote” in places where they were losing and “Stop the Vote” where they were winning—my hometown of Philadelphia put America over the top.

Actually, it was the suburbs. Of course, the City of Brotherly Love urbanites mostly went for Biden and the rural Pennsylvanians generally voted for tRump. But it was the “housewives” and a few house husbands of Philly’s Montgomery county, where I happen to have grown up—the ones that the Trumpus so persistently courted (“Suburban women, will you please like me?”)—that appear to have delivered the decisive electoral blows to the Trumpkin with their olivewood butcher block cutting boards.

Let’s make Trumpkin pie; nobody will eat it, but we can throw it in the face of fascism.

Not that I love or even like the politics of Joe Biden or Kamala Harris. Neither were my first choice in the primaries. Bernie was first, Elizabeth Warren second, then Marianne Williamson and Julian Castro. Joe and Kamala were the bottom of the Blue barrel for me. However, the controlling right wing of the Democratic Party saw fit to forcefully put forth a conservative, right-leaning centrist team against the Trumpus and the Pompous Pence. Since that was my best alternative, I *chose* to vote for it.

Both Joe and Kamala appear to be corporate shills deeply embedded “in the pocket” of Wall Street hyper-capitalism. Biden voted for George W. Bush’s awful, ongoing Afghan and Iraq Wars. Harris co-sponsored the lethal-to-sex-workers, censorious-for-everyone SESTA/FOSTA act.

This is pretty scary, and not in an erotic scary-sex way. I’m afraid that, in an effort to “restore America’s place in the world,” we may wind up in World War III. On the other hand, I’m also afraid that once “Sleepy Joe” is in office (assuming the Trumpus coup is a bust), he will put us all to sleep. I must confess, after almost half a decade of nightly terrors, a four-year snooze fest sounds mighty appealing. But we really need to keep fighting for much-needed progressive change.

Nevertheless, I have a lot more hope than I would under a renewed tRump administration. Biden hasn’t always been pro-war; at least, he voted against George Bush, Sr.’s Kuwait invasion (starting as “Desert Shield,” then Desert Storm, now Desert Mess), and was opposed to Obama’s ill-conceived surge in Afghanistan.

In terms of sex work, I hope that Harris will be true to her word that she now supports decriminalization (an about-face from her earlier stance). With Zoom Dick a growing problem (Jeffrey Toobin’s tale of hard times rubbing people the wrong way having climaxed with being fired by The New Yorker), good sex work is more vital to the well-being of our society than ever.

Seriously, it comes down to this: Harris is not the odious, sanctimonious fly-magnet that is Mike Pence, and Biden is not the horrific tRump, so I voted for them.

In so doing, I discovered a feeling I’ve never felt before: the strange blissful thrill of partaking in a communal American triumph over something awful.

I know it’s not ALL of America, and I actually feel for the Trumpers, in a bonobo way, because four years ago, I was feeling as lost, pissed off, desperate and delusional as most of them are now. Nevertheless, most Americans who voted did vote to defeat the Trumpenstein, as I did.

Iconoclast that I am—against all the popular wars, for greater sexual freedom and more socialism—I don’t often experience this level of common ground with a majority of Americans.

It’s also true that “most of America” delivered a bloody Red Wave of Republifascist senators and congresspeople into our legislative body, many of them hellbent on delegitimizing any Democratic administration or “socialist” measure.

However, in our apparent triumph in the executive branch, I am, for this moment, in sync with America, and that’s a special communal ecstasy of its own—especially climactic after having been “edging” over those four excruciating days between Election Day and Announcement Morning, coupled with the sweet synchronicity of this occurring on Max’s birthday, especially since the horror unfolded on his birthday in 2016. So here we are, four years later, celebrating the fall of tRump, a product of a corrupt, greedy, oligarchical American system, to be sure, but a particularly monstrous, ridiculous and yet incredibly tenacious and still rather dangerous product.

There’s a lot more work to do, and tough challenges to handle—the surging Coronapocalypse, the lopsided economy, the rich getting exponentially richer as the poor get dangerously poorer, sadistic policing, sexual discrimination and climate catastrophe, to name just a few of the emergencies facing all of us today. Then there’s the small matter of the peaceful transfer of U.S. Presidential power actually taking place.

Will tricky Trumpty Dumpty leave egg on all our faces?

Who knows? It’s Max’s birthday, it’s the Bonobo Way anniversary, and Mr. Wannabe Dick-tator has LOST the race! And that’s as good a reason as any to celebrate in Bonoboville.

Because we really don’t know what happens next.

Print Share Comment Cite Upload Translate Updates

Leave a Reply Cancel reply