I didn’t watch the Stormy Daniels interview. For one thing I was busy cleaning my AR-15s — which are, in fact, an excellent choice for target shooting, hunting, and home defense — and for another thing I just assume that she is telling the truth and that her skillset really is worth $130k a pop, if not much, much, more. And for a third thing – not that any other reason is really required – I’ve seen the Russian bordellos in Dubai, and as a result I’ve sworn off strumpets as a source for either entertainment or wisdom.
I realize that in the present atmosphere mine is an unpopular choice. The proof of its unpopularity is that the Stormy interview set a “ratings milestone” for CBS’s otherwise listing flagship 60 Minutes. Turns out most Americans aren’t that interested in exposés on disaster relief in Puerto Rico, or the heroic work of the White Helmets in bombed out neighborhoods of Syria, but porn stars and presidents make an instant and historical splash.
And millions of people who would otherwise ignore 60 Minutes for spicy reruns of Celebrity Housewives of Orange County can’t possibly be wrong.
Not watching the interview was probably even foolish on my part, now that celebrities of various stripes routinely take the stage to lecture people like me on every subject imaginable — from the 2nd Amendment to colonic hydrotherapy, from Green Vaccines to foreign policy and the pros and cons of raising “free range” children.
The wisdom bestowed on celebrities — by virtue of attaining celebrity – is simply limitless, and I should probably pay more attention.
But the truth is that Stormy, dear-heart, deserves at least some credit for leaving us all what will, no doubt, resonate on into the future as the lasting image of the Trump era Presidency: the eventual leader of the free world being spanked by a porn star with a magazine featuring his own image on the cover.
It would be difficult to dream up a more appropriate legacy image, in fact, for the present political condition of our entire republic, and in that sense Stormy Daniels may be the most relevant artist currently working anywhere in the world.
Which is why I wish somebody, like Noveske, or Daniel Defense, would offer a new Stormy Daniels Upper for the AR platform.
I really don’t mean to make short-shrift of the value of presidential mistresses, because they really are important, both historically and as measuring sticks in the evaluation of contemporary culture. Marilyn Monroe and Monica Lewinsky, for instance, both had a lot of important things to say to the rest of us.
And I would never disrespect them because the truth is, even if the Russians and Syrians are dropping chemical weapons on civilians in Douma, and even if hundreds of migrants are marching toward America demanding to be housed, fed, and educated at our expense, those unfortunate souls sucked in, so to speak, by the tractor beam of political celebrity deserve their full fifteen minutes of recognition.
Because all lives matter.
And I probably would tune in if someone — maybe Piers Morgan since this sort of thing seems to fit nicely into his body of work, and also because a British accent lends a sort of gravitas to even the most salaciously funny subject — could throw together a gathering of former Presidential Mistresses.
Naturally, it should be done in a “Town Hall format”, a favorite of campaign managers and tv producers because it rewards the viewer with a decidedly more “intimate portrait” of their favorite candidate, or in this case their candidate’s mistress(s).
Getting all of the mistresses in one room would be an award-worthy feat and serve as proof that relentless hammering on the mundane and the mendacious is precisely the recipe for health, happiness, and wisdom we’ve all been searching for.
At any rate, assembling the brighter lights and bigger minds of the Executive Dalliance Survivor’s Club would be must-see television. I would stop cleaning my AR’s for that.
It probably sells itself, really, given that the Clinton mistresses alone could easily book a decent venue. And if I were a television producer I would recommend The Donner Party Ballroom at the Grand Sierra in Reno – the perfect setting for a full-hour of sensational tabloid cannibalism, and only blocks away from the National Bowling Congress.
I like that idea a lot because, thinking ahead, I can see an even more interesting after-party held down the road at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch, which could keep Fox, CNN, and MSNBC and their endless network of stringers busy for weeks.
Meanwhile, back home in Oregon, IP 43 is snaking its way toward the ballot. Which is another reason I skipped the Stormy Daniels bit. Because the truth is that this Initiative Petition is the most blatantly fascist assault on freedom in some time, and I thought it was far more important to keep my powder dry for the big fight being pushed onto law-abiding citizens by control freaks who would turn us all into outlaws.
So, Stormy Upper or no Stormy Upper, here’s the deal I’m offering in reply to the lecturing school-marms and snowflakes of America, whose confiscatory intentions have finally been revealed in the language of IP 43: You don’t get my guns. None of them. Ever. And I mean that most sincerely.