#Trump

*  *  *

Prepare for the hangover, Mr. Trump

Sleeping with the enemy

On January 21 in the year of our Lord 2012, after having concluded that our mattress had reached the lowest dip in the biorythm of its life, the Goat and I concluded a harrowing shopping excursion with the purchase of the unit pictured above (more here).

This was the first new mattress purchase I ever made. Hence, when the set I wanted clocked in at nearly $1,800, I did not care.

"I do not care," I told the Goat as we lay upon the Trumpster's mattress in our winter coats staring at the ceiling in the predictable showroom.

That the mattress we liked best was under the Trump brand was more or less a joke. Who cared? We liked the unit, which was, after all, a Serta - one of those brands we more or less trust.

Here in the year of our Lord 2016, however, a few things have changed. We are no longer in the market for a new bed, but if we were, I daresay the Trump name would deter the purchase. Four years ago, the Donald was a loud-mouthed boor. Today, he's an egomaniac dangerously stoking the flames of fear and bigotry in order to prolong his perverse intoxication. I offered this observation to the Goat during our constitutional yesterday morning.

"No way I would shell out $1,800 for anything with a Trump label on it now," I said.

"So what?" countered the Goat. "His supporters will."

I begged to differ, saying that the average Trump supporter does not look one hell of a lot like the people who have historically supported the luxe Trump brand. Try a swank $420 per night hotel room or a $600,000 NYC one-bedroom condo.

Who knows? Maybe the rich people won't care if their $380 Aquanox Signature Spa Experience is associated with the Trumpster. That said, there's always someone happy to take your $380 who does not publicly call women fat and ugly and does not believe you should be barred from entering the country based on your religion.

But if that same rich person opts to purchase a mattress much like my own, she or he will discover that Serta has since stopped selling mattresses under the Trump name on account of his "disparaging comments about Mexican immigrants."

That's just one. Earlier this month, Politico offered up a telling article on how the Trumpster's luxury brand is nosediving amid the Donald's atrocious rhetoric.

"I could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and I wouldn't lose voters."

While I suppose that may indeed depend on the demographics of the victim, Mr. Trump, it may nonetheless be true. The question is, in the event you wake on January 20, 2017 and find you are not preparing for the inaugural pomp and circumstance, who will be bellying up to support the Trump brand? Your post-political life may no longer include the well-heeled. You'll be left with the angry white middle class to whom you've pandered, which may or may not be able to afford your diamond-encrusted lifestyle.

As my dearly beloved pointed out to me, Trump has reinvented himself time and time again. Perhaps he will do so in the aftermath of his political career as the Politico article points out:

"Then again, (Trump) could move into the part of the consumer market where no real damage has been done. Perhaps a Trump brand of smokes, or maybe canned meat?"

So who's up for a Trumped Potted Meat sammie and a nice cold can of The Donald's Pink Catawba?

*  *  *

Add a pinch of free market to Citizens United and you get: TRUMP

Financial windfall, O'Brien style

Dear readership, these musings have been written quickly whilst a development news assignment waits, the laundry tumbles, the beef roasts and the Goat golfs, so just stick with me on this.

Given: Americans really hate corruption.

Corruption has been going on in politics for a long time. In January of 2010, however, the Supreme Court of the United States removed any fig leaf hiding it by essentially codifying corruption with the Citizens United decision.

Enter: Donald Trump.

Pundits have much to say about the popularity welling around him. They call him an outsider. They claim he's tapped into a certain spittle-flecked-red-faced rightie anger.

yeah, yeah

The primary reason people are rallying around Trump is his money. They believe it makes him immune to the siren songs of the lobbyists and deep-pocketed special interests. They believe it frees him from fundraising.

His supporters don't care what he says. And to be fair, why should they? Nothing politicians say matters. It's all tribal.

So Trump has money and he's a tribe member (well, sort of). Add a healthy dose of bigotry and misogyny and voila! You're in rightie heaven.

Conversely, the lefties love Sanders because he's a socialist. Sanders cares more about people than money-- a LOT more. Therefore his supporters believe he cannot be bought by the big money hurting all the little people. Add income equality, reproductive rights and a living wage and libs inflate with pure joy.

All of this is causing a real problem for establishment candidates because they are (of course) bought and paid for by lobbyists and special interests.

Aside: Could 2016 be Kasich/Biden? hm ... dunno

As for me, I'll take the socialist over the narcissist (I'm pretty sure you could buy Trump for one thin dime if he was broke while Sanders has sung the same tune for 30 years), but make no mistake: When the courts stand above the American people and announce that corruption is the law of the land, John Q. Public will gravitate to those they believe will eschew it. Trump and Sanders are the perfect candidates: one doesn't need money, the other doesn't want it.

There is something delicious in this.

For once, beads of sweat are forming on big money's upper lip, although I'm certain it will find a way to snuff out Those Who Will Not Be Bough. Until then, the lobbyists can pull at their collars and clear their throats while the rest of us enjoy some free market politics.

*  *  *

Phone cam round up

No one offers up diamond quality quite like Costco. To anyone who doesn't believe it, just have a look at that fancy cursive font.
 

A free miser with a top hat.

"For me, the cinema is not a slice of life, but a piece of Erin O'Brien."

Don't worry, I won't!!!!

Gimme cuppa' joe.

The meek have apparently inherited the earth.

I formally apologize to my mom for sticking these all over my bedroom door when I was eleven.

Metal thingies, rib cage, no head.

I was not invited. Why wasn't I invited?

I'll see your 2 bags cement and raise you 1 Metal Saw zaw blade.

Okay, but do you have any tall people balls?

Trump, playing around just beneath divinity.

 * * *

Upon a bed of roses

Up until just a few days ago, your humble hostess had never laid herself down to sleep upon a new mattress. Ever.

Each of the beds I have occupied were either handed over, under or down. In my mid-teens, I graduated from a single bed of unknown origin to a full that had previously serviced the guest room. As for the history of that bed, I have no idea; but a move to the guest room is surely a demotion in the life of any mattress.

Serta sales representative

In those days, my parents hosted frequent and notorious parties and the guest room bed was often piled with coats and wayward guests with dubious intentions (they were probably lined up outside the door--this was the 70's for chrissake). Hence by the time I inherited the mattress, it was duly humped into submission, but I soldiered on undaunted and eventually moved out, weary bed set in tow. As for its employ during my single years: thank god mattresses don't talk. That bed endured through all of that and the first few tender years of holy matrimony with the Goat.

Then one day while blinking at the ceiling next to my dearly beloved, the extent of the sunken depression that cradled our bodies moved me to action.

"Honey," I said, "let's change out our bed with the guest room bed."

Portable Serta representative

Our "guest room bed" had been the Goat's bed during his bachelor days. One would normally associate its (ahem) "economy" grade with a roadside motel and the last occupant's lingering cloud of Aqua Velva. So it went with another atrocious mattress for four or five years until the Goat's parents purchased a new bed set and did we want their old one, which was a top-of-the-line-Sealy-when-we-bought-it or should they just throw it out even though it's practically like new?

Um, okay. Sure. Thanks. And the Goat and I did deliver unto that bed twelve more years of experience.

Detail from Judy O'Brien's original Jane Avril quilt, which now graces Lil' OB's bed.

Now for a sidebar: Save for one uniquely stunning bed ensemble that was inspired by Toulouse-Lautrec's muse Jane Avril, and that my mother designed and hand stitched, all of the bed linens associated with this sad, sad tale were (of course) mismatched, handed-down, purchased on sale, or from the "seconds" bin.

Good Christ.

Cut to a few weeks ago. Once again, I lay blinking at the ceiling next to my splendid king. Wrapped in threadbare sheets and pilled blankets, our bodies were barely suspended by the beleaguered and creaky springs beneath us.

"Honey," I said at the advance age of 46 and with nearly 20 years of marriage behind me, "we're buying a new bed." He didn't argue.

New bed of Goat and humble hostess as displayed by portable Serta representative

I shall not include the litany of traumas one encounters while shopping for the components of a complete bed ensemble in this already exhaustive account. I did, however, wholly adore the two mattress delivery men who were so beautifully matched to their chosen careers, it nearly brought tears to my eyes and earned them each a ten-spot for their superlative service.

Enter karma, six degrees of separation gone bad, kismet, irony, poetic justice, or whatever you want to call it; sometimes just desserts come in blossoms of two: one white, one black. For I surely deserved that lovely new bed and all the trimmings, but did I deserve what comes next? Let the reader decide.

The lush bed that moved the Goat and me as we lay upon it in the showroom in our jeans and coats,with my head resting on his torso and the saleswoman giggling at my quips, comes by way of my sworn enemy. Must I type his name? No matter, I shan't.

Behold the acrimonious details of our relationship at your own risk.

Sleeping with the enemy indeed.

Woeful label detail from humble hostess's new mattress

Dear Donnie,

Photo by Gage Skidmore for Wiki

I used to have respect for the way you reinvented yourself, that whole over-the-top "You're Fired" shtick struck me as oddly self-deprecating (wink wink, nudge nudge). You were laughing at yourself while being in control of the entire movement--and you pulled it off. No, I wasn't a big fan of the show, but I thought that Caroline chick was a gas.

If you want to dig someone who's mastered this , Donnie baby, see William Shatner--the Supreme Lord of being in on the joke when the joke is on you. And if you're out there, Bill, I love ya.



That, Donnie baby, is how you do it.

But your glittering Trumpness and The Apprentice (do note how your image appears carefully below the fold on that page) wasn't enough, was it? Last week you fell from the esteemed Shatner camp of camp into the depths of Hefner hell with one spectacular step. Now you're a self-made man that created a staggering one-name brand then painted yourself into caricature with a palette of greed and hubris. Hefner will die a joke amid a gaggle of giggling (and I daresay relieved) blonds and you'll be the jackass with the bad comb-over who pompously congratulated himself for getting Obama to finally behave and show his papers when asked.

Have fun in hell you miserable shitbag.

Love,

Erin

*  *  * 

UPDATE: After I penned this, Donnie baby, I watched Seth Meyers' monologue at the White House Correspondence Dinner. It is flat-out hilarious, but watching you smolder was pure sugar for my soul. Aw Donnie baby, you sure can't take the joke when you're not the one holding the cards, can you?

Dumbass.

* * *

The Trumpster

Make no mistake: I take the man at his word, but I'd just like to raise the question:

Is Donald Trump's hair really a natural pompadour?

I mean, can anyone remember ever actually combing Donald Trump's hair? Can anyone attest to actual hair follicles residing beneath that thick golden fold of hair on his pate?

If you ask anyone about my hair, you'll find people who remember me actually combing it. If anyone wants to come over here and study my hair follicles, I'm ready. Is the Trumpster ready for that level of scrutiny?

I'm just raising the question. I'm really concerned over this.

* * *

Two items

1. Surprise, surprise. Donald Trump is supporting McPalin.

I like The Donald. I often fantasize that if I were to be a contestant on The Apprentice, Trump would immediately recognize my splendored genius, pluck me from the ranks and hustle me off to a private office wherein I would draft documents for him for $10 a word.

I also respect The Donald's most recent political endorsement. Trump knows that old fat rich white guys look out for other old fat rich white guys. So unless you are an old fat rich white guy, I suggest you vote Obama 2008.

Am I making any cents?

2. I have been obliged to add Mr. Smith to my blogroll. My oh my the Internet doth maketh strangeth bedfellows.