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Friday, 10 November 2017

trump forbidden city

Dear Mr President,

It was a thrill to see the world’s most powerful leader in the Forbidden City this week, and a honor to see you, Mr. President, right there at his side. The official photo is perfect – POTUS and FLOTUS, PORC and FLORC, for all the world like two rival fifth-century emperors and their official wives, sitting for their portraits before getting down to the real business of comparing the size of their armies and their hands, the number of their conquests, and of the countries they’ve conquered.

You, hands in their characteristic arrowhead pose pointing down from your crotch, while gazing upward in charming, boyish wonder, silently planning a new ceiling in your Mar-a-Lago bedroom; and Melania, poor Melania, grimly going along, while her face says, “What was I thinking?”

Xi Jinping, confident and complacent, half-smiling in the knowledge that he has rigged the game; Madame Xi happily acting her part while concealing her contempt for the barbarians; you, hands in their characteristic arrowhead pose pointing down from your crotch, while gazing upward in charming, boyish wonder, silently planning a new ceiling in your Mar-a-Lago bedroom; and Melania, poor Melania, grimly going along, while her face says, “What was I thinking?”

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It is all very symbolic, isn’t it? The way everything about you is symbolic – the towers; the exaggerated length of your (usually red, though here for decorum’s sake, blue-striped) neckties; the hair of a color and profusion that no one believes but everyone must pretend to believe as a sign of their faith; the still-stunning-at-47 wife whose naked photos from younger days every male in America (and probably China) over the age of 12 has drooled over, which drooling you revel in because you imagine it makes them wish they were you; the signature consisting solely of over-large, over-bold, up-thrusting strokes made with a thick carpenter’s pen that attacks the paper as if every signing was an act of violation and revenge.

“He’s covering up something,” says Rod Pipe, a construction worker who’s a regular at the Retrofit, even though he’s not a Trumpistolero, “and it’s not his hands.”

“You might be on to something,” agrees Professor Wolfgang Pfallomessung. He’s some kind of shrink who has no patients so he sits in a corner on Friday nights, wearing a very small bow-tie and scribbling in a notebook. “A classic case of overcompensatory penile fixation insecurity, probably a result of a childhood of overindulgence compounded by severe disapproval from a hated authority figure like a schoolmaster or a nanny.”

But guys in Gatos Gordos don’t go in for that psychoanalysis-of-other-people sort of thing. They have their own problems.

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Dan Embree