Let me get this straight. He has to destroy all of America and the world so he can not-shake his booty like the one time he ever let himself go, in a crowd, aka on coke in Studio 54 to Village People?
It's like Brain Candy, the film. Gleemonex reaches into your brain (chemically!), locates your happiest memory (chemically!), and freezes it (chemically!). The fascism locks on to his happiest memory and keeps him there.
We have to endure all this so as to act as a dubious antidepressant to Trump.
He does that dance at the very end of his rallies, with the volume turned all the way up to ear-splitting levels, presumably how a naive person would've heard the speakers in Studio 54 way back when. Regressive, too, the intensity of the sound.
Footage from the time shows him dancing just that way, that jerk-your-arms-don't-whatever-you-do-shake-your-booty white man dance of racist homophobia.
The one measly little bit of real enjoyment in his brain, the one little bit of being part of a crowd rather than the mirror-mirror-on-the-wall-ness of his entire existence, just look at his penthouse.
No comments:
Post a Comment