By David Glenn Cox
There will probably never be another Presidential debate. Well, let me rephrase that. There will never be another audience for a Presidential debate. I was stuck in that Black Sabbath song where Ozzie screams, “Oh no, no, please god help me!” I had these recurring visions of Chris Christie preparing Mr. Trump on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. “Hey baby! Hey baby! Doctor Love here, I got a four-hundred-pound prescription for you! You must be an angel, wanna fuck?”
Joe Biden underperformed but he had an excuse, a jabbering orange jackass beside him with no intentions of following the rules of debate, decorum, or even adulthood. We should know by now that Trump projects. When Trump starts talking about Hunter Biden, it is because he wants to change the subject from Russia. When Trump starts talking about drug tests, it means he’s been in Junior’s stash again. Jaba the Trump was filled with thoughts but couldn’t complete any of them. He fell back on his grasp of numbers and people. “People say, some people say, many people say, many Democrat Governors say, a lot of people say.”
Donald Trump overperformed to his own determent. The Cheeto presented himself @the real Donald Trump. And began a chemically induced ninety-minute rant destined to kill the crew on the Satellite of Love. One of the really great aspects of growing up in the early 1970s is my relationship with street corner pharmacology. I can not only tell you when your high, I can tell what you’re on. So lowered inhibitions and lowered self-control. An inability to organize facts instead they are all trying to rush the door at once. An inability to stay on the subject and the general nervousness of someone high who doesn’t want you to know he’s high.
The face ticks and exaggerated motions shifting from side to side and the inability to hold still. The orange make up double applied for that dignified bronze god look instead made Mr. Trump look like a Chia pet. The wrinkles and scars accentuated in the orangeness against the backdrop of the worst suit I’ve ever seen a billionaire wear. It hung on him like a barrel and made him look large. A pup tent with a big orange head on top! He would have been ejected from Mrs. Glotfelty’s 6th grade debate class and forced to stand in the hall. So, you can’t even call it a debate. No ideas were exchanged, or principles examined.
This was a drunk showing up to a baby shower making Chris Wallace the butt of the joke. Joe Biden wasn’t ambushed, but Chris Wallace was. He signed up to be the dignified moderator and ends up rolling in the mud with Orange Speedo, the Professional Wrestler. Hear the chemicals talking? The drunk at the bar who wants to argue with everybody. “The suspect was combative.” If Trump had been Black, the cops would have tazed him. The next debate Joe Biden doesn’t even need to show up Trump was doing more damage all by himself than Biden could hope to score.
But let us take a moment to remember the victims of this needless tragedy, the American people. Cue Sarah McLaughlin and take away this warning that drugs are not the answer unless you’re unsure of the question. You could find yourself pretending to be something you’re not, but the drugs tell you, you are. Spewing out prerecorded jingoism and invective, losing the ability to see yourself as others see you. You’ll think you did a good job because you’re high. Everyone else is holding their hands to the sides of their heads and screaming! But Donald Trump thinks he did a good job.
Then came the question about White Supremacy and Mr. Trump woke up. His mind is clear, and he tells Proud Boys, “To stand back and hold.” What kind of shit is that? You talk like you’ve spoken to these people before, like they’re friends of yours.” Too clever by half, “They’ll never catch on to our super-secret code!” tee he, tee he. Joe Biden is right, “The worst President America has ever had.” A President who can’t even hold his drugs.
“Mom! Grandpa’s talking crazy again and won’t give me the remote control.”
In the name of Jerry Garcia, Timothy Leary, Hunter Thompson, and all that is holy, I protest. I gave up a Yoko Ono music marathon to watch this nonsense. There was a rarely seen Godzilla picture on last night that won’t be shown again until Saturday. In it, an actor in a rubber monster suit staggers through the urban wreckage representing man’s inability to come to grips with his own modern technology. The monster represents our fear of a reprisal from an abused Earth. Small Japanese children never attend school and never need to go home. If you enjoyed last night’s event skip the Godzilla movie as too far over your head.
Stick to the orange Godzilla, staggering through the wreckage of his own first term. Reaching into his bag of tricks, he seeks the wisdom of the sacred tablets. The knowledge of the West Coast turn around and the secret of Mother’s little helpers. Donald Trump performed wasted last night and showed his backside to the world. To his followers it won’t matter, he could bite the head off of a bat. But Trump’s over the top and under the bottom performance illustrated why he should not be the President, no matter who he’s running against.
“Poor bastard. Wait ’till he sees the bats. ”
― Hunter S. Thompson