Count me in as one of the folks who is one hundred percent certain that a Russian kompromat “pee tape” of Donald Trump and some Ruskie prostitutes actually exists. In the year that it has been in our collective existence, and despite the incessant bleating of right wing media shills to the contrary, not a single thing in the infamous Steele Dossier has been proven false. The golden notion squares with everything I know about Donald Trump—that he is a puerile, prurient and profane scumbag who gets off on humiliation and degradation, sexually and otherwise. We’ve recently learned that our illustrious Commander in Chief likes it when porn stars spank his flabby white ass with rolled-up magazines on whose covers he appears, then likes raw dogging them while telling them how much they remind him of his amply faux jugged daughter (who he has publicly mused about dating on several occasions) before firing off a handful of six-figure checks to keep their tongues from wagging.
Does paying a few hookers to piss on a hotel bed that Barack and Michelle Obama once shared really seem that out of character for this loathsome piece of shit? Of course not.
But where I once rooted for its sudden bombshell appearance on social media, I find myself caring less and less whether the pee tape exists. Sadly, Cheeto Benito's daily behavior as president is already far worse and much more embarrassing than anything that could appear on a Trumpian sex tape.
Is prostitutes pissing on a bed any more disgusting than our Dear Leader callously and cynically destroying tens of thousands of families by treating DACA kids as little more than political clay pigeons for his ravenously racist base?
Is a little pay-per-tinkle any more culturally offensive than taking up the cause of literal Nazis to the point of calling them “some very fine people” on television?
Is paying Nadia and Veronica to drench a few Sealy Posturepedics any more grossly indulgent than dispatching the National Guard to militarize our southern border even though illegal border crossings are currently at a 46-year low just because his white power fanbase hates Mexicans?
When it comes to sexual deviancy, as long as nobody is getting hurt, I tend to not give much of a shit what goes on behind closed doors. I didn’t care about Bill Clinton’s over-ballyhoo’d blowjob, ditto for JFK’s dalliances with Marilyn Monroe, and I try very hard not to visualize little Donny Fuckface flogging his Cialis-engorged cocktail carrot while two Russian hookers complicate the lives of the housekeeping staff at the Moscow Ritz-Carleton. When compared to the offensiveness of Trump’s daily life—a life in which a clearly broken and defective man needs to start Twitter wars, political wars, race wars, trade wars, and potentially nuclear wars just to gaslight himself from his own inescapable reality: that he is a fundamentally unloved, unredeemable, subhuman piece of shit who has failed monumentally at everything he could get his tiny little fingers on, from universities, steaks, vodkas, casinos, mortgage companies, board games, football leagues, airlines and casinos, to marriage, paternity, and literally everything else.
There’s nothing more disgusting, sad, or stomach turning than what this vile asshole did yesterday, the day before that, or will do today, tomorrow, and the day after that. This pathetic creature literally has no bottom.
That’s the real tragedy: that when compared to the most routine per diem public Trumpisms, paying a few hookers to piss on each other while he desperately rubs one out barely registers in the Top 40 shittiest things I can rattle off from the past year, alone. What’s worse, 40% of America continues to define his actions and brain-farted opinions as being perfectly in line with what will “Make America Great Again.”
And there’s not a sex act in the world more disgusting than that.