Making Mar-A-Lago Face in the Bar

     I was in a sleazy local bar drinking gin and listening to the band, Loose Change and Whiskey, stumble through another round of twelve bar blues. That’s when I saw her – her face pulled taut and tight like a catcher’s mitt. Leather face and swollen lips like an inflated parade balloon. Her blond hair was piled high in a heap on top of her head. She wore some stars and stripes emblazoned blouse with spangles and sequins. She signaled to the bartender for another rum and coke.

    This bizarre, inverted peahen was signaling her MAGA reproductivity with collagen and silicone. She sipped at her drink and made eyes at me. At least that’s what I assume she was trying to. She didn’t blink. I don’t think she could. And her eyebrows didn’t move. The face-lift and Botox injections didn’t leave her face with much flexibility.

    I nodded, not because I was interested, only offering the basest level of civility. She misconstrued, however, and came around the bar to where I was sitting. “F – Yeah!” she shouted over the music. “I love this place.”

    Up close her orange spray tan skin looked like a terrible leather sofa. Worn. Old and sat upon. “It’s great,” I said – being polite but nothing more. I sipped my gin attentively. She took the hint, but didn’t like it.

    “Well get outta’ my goddamned way if you don’t like it here,” she snarled.

    But I could see it all carved into her plastic surgery – political conformity under the scalpel’s edge – whiplash chaos and her gleeful willingness – her eager anticipation – to shoot trespassers and illegal immigrants. It’s not a reluctant, if it must be done, attitude She wants to do it. She’s waiting for the chance to shoot first and ask questions later. Deport the immigrants. Shoot the misperceived threat before it can become real. She wouldn’t mourn it as a failure. She wouldn’t grieve it as a loss and loss of life. She will celebrate and ask for more. And she would cross state lines to do it.

    “Feed them to the alligators” is her new “feed them to the lions.” Cruelty is the point. For her pleasure. For her satisfaction and her joy. Given half a chance, I’m sure she’d buy a packet of lynch tree postcards.

    “Kick ass!” she shouted, spilling her drink as Loose Change and Whiskey finished their song then she turned to me. “You’re just another whiny bitch brainwashed dumbass liberal cuck, aren’t you?” she said but her lips never moved.