The rhetoric surrounding the Dorito-in-Chief has been intense and varied since the beginning of the end a year and a half ago. His racism, xenophobia, misogynistic views, sexual perversion and downright ineptitude have been plastered front and center on nearly every protest sign and late night talk show, and rightfully so. But one line of commentary has rubbed me the wrong way for several months now.
Much time has been devoted to the discussion of the Loser of the Popular Vote’s body, particularly his hands. Objectively speaking, they are indeed quite small, perhaps even disproportionately so. But this had led to a derisive line of body shaming that serves no purpose but to put us on the same level as the Cheeto Monster. The most obvious line of attack was questioning the size of Trump Jr. (not his son) -- a tactic that, while effective in riling up the Tangelo from Hell, plays into a historically unfair standard that equates penis size with power, capability and manliness. Others have chosen to create nude statues and murals ridiculing the Xenophobic Sweet Potato that, although perhaps defensible as “art,” reinforce traditional dialogues that shame body fat and wrinkles.
As someone who is nowhere close to liking their body, I can guarantee that my body has very little to do with my actions. The Moldy Quesadilla is not a deplorable human being because he is not skinny or because he is aging or because he can’t find someone to make him a half-decent toupee. He embodies so many of the hateful behaviors and ideas we have been taught to avoid, and yet some people take more interest in proving his hair is fake and his clothes don’t fit well.
Relying on middle school antics does nothing to resist the onslaught of close-minded legislation the Great Pumpkin of Death has unleashed across our nation. For those who missed the lesson in "Mean Girls" (2004), taking down your opponent for being unattractive makes you no better than them. For all of the times we rose up in outrage when Orange Gummy Candy That Nobody Wants to Eat called Rosie O’Donnell a fat pig, we seem awfully willing to engage in the same body-shaming rhetoric.
But perhaps the worst of the verbal attacks against the Sadistic Sun-dried Tomato has been the insinuation, first popularized by "Saturday Night Live" (1975-present), that he and Vladimir Putin are lovers. While I agree that the Talking Comb-over’s devotion to relations with Russia are potentially dangerous, belittling the Soggy Burlap Sack for a supposed homosexual relationship is disturbing both for its blatant homophobia and its destructive notion that intimacy between men is to be ridiculed.
If you are running out of reasons to denounce the Mutant Clownfish, consider his sexualized treatment of his daughter or his disrespect for the environment or his (illegal) unwillingness to untie himself from his business ventures. But don’t think you are doing humanity a service by mocking his appearance (horrendous makeup skills and inability to find the right shade of foundation aside).
On Queer: On tiny hands
