Ex Dictator on TMZ
By Chris Vola
The cameras pan to absurd mouthfuls of scrambled eggs. Snap a picture of the president and his entourage, poolside at the expansive Polynesian villa, enjoying his new identity (not to mention all the fat native pussy and double-stiff Mai-Tais) but there’s still one final order of business: he’s almost forgotten to make his martyr video. “Thank Allah and E! News for the opportunity to bitchslap infidels with some kind of jihad or another,” I don’t know, a train car explodes in Moscow, maybe a bus in Tel Aviv, Marlon Brando in Apocalpyse Now, whatever can translate into any number of suicide-bombing related disasters, but in Pacific Islander culture being fat is a sign of beauty, or royalty, or something and the biggest ones will probably be princesses. It’s hard to separate business and fatties, double cheeseburgers and thick Samoan thighs, the same dirty power-lunch jokes while the scrambled eggs make it clear they could care less about anything besides the paychecks. We get it: satisfaction never lasts, Allah’s overrated and being countryless isn’t as cool as when Santa Monica became so full the Governator enforced vegetarianism without the proper documentation, before the outer space colony for illegal supermarkets, when you had to drive your post-suburban vehicle forty-five minutes to welcome gays, women and everyone else on Rodeo who knew how to get to the Home Depot. Not that it matters in this context, but it was a requirement. The president sighs, his lips split like two all-beef patties, juicy dripping bacon strip poking out from fluffy sesame-seed buns and the cameras zoom out because this is the sad part in the eighties teen movie where the guy’s holding the girl’s hand tightly across the seat on the way to the abortion clinic but nobody gets too bummed because everything will work out in the end, except for your average neo-socialist tea-peddler in Suez, the 12-year-old chain-smoking circumcised Tunisian who’s seen the helicopter’s ugly bubble cockpit, knows that within certain limits the Moon is as imitated as a soldier, meaning, this isn’t Pretty in Pink, or even indigo. The scrambled eggs are getting cold, the Swiss bank’s closed, and the wife’s on a banana boat getting elbow greased by a pimple-backed rugby star and “DONUT-HOLED-POLITICO-CORPSE-HERDER” didn’t sound so bad streaming across the HD monitor until the fatties get up to leave – another Mickey D’s run – and the camera guy gets a text to shut down and pack up shop – it’s back to Malibu or Akron because Charlie’s at it again (porno girls are hotter without veils, duh). Anyway, martyr as a color hasn’t been in since the Seacrest administration, which is an easier way of saying: this is over, kaput, finito, Nicole Kidman’s original forehead, Nicolas Cage’s original talent, and you’re starting to gain a much better understanding of the daily hardships faced by your average tropically inclined and terminally disposed multi-billionare. So snap one last picture, the scrambled eggs fading into the sunset, the president’s frail liver-arm resting on the shoulder of his secretary, a jolly turbaned fellow named Ibrahim with a cyanide prescription and a playfully ironic Islamo-Fascism fetish and somewhere on the less exclusive side of the villa little Susie Kowalski (vacationing from Poughkeepsie) is on Twitter asking Kim Kardashian why her nose looks so different from Season 1. Don’t get upset, it’s a requirement.
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Chris Vola's writings appear in a variety of real, digital, and imagined places. He is a frequent contributor to The Brooklyn Rail, though he eats and blogs in Manhattan.
By Chris Vola
The cameras pan to absurd mouthfuls of scrambled eggs. Snap a picture of the president and his entourage, poolside at the expansive Polynesian villa, enjoying his new identity (not to mention all the fat native pussy and double-stiff Mai-Tais) but there’s still one final order of business: he’s almost forgotten to make his martyr video. “Thank Allah and E! News for the opportunity to bitchslap infidels with some kind of jihad or another,” I don’t know, a train car explodes in Moscow, maybe a bus in Tel Aviv, Marlon Brando in Apocalpyse Now, whatever can translate into any number of suicide-bombing related disasters, but in Pacific Islander culture being fat is a sign of beauty, or royalty, or something and the biggest ones will probably be princesses. It’s hard to separate business and fatties, double cheeseburgers and thick Samoan thighs, the same dirty power-lunch jokes while the scrambled eggs make it clear they could care less about anything besides the paychecks. We get it: satisfaction never lasts, Allah’s overrated and being countryless isn’t as cool as when Santa Monica became so full the Governator enforced vegetarianism without the proper documentation, before the outer space colony for illegal supermarkets, when you had to drive your post-suburban vehicle forty-five minutes to welcome gays, women and everyone else on Rodeo who knew how to get to the Home Depot. Not that it matters in this context, but it was a requirement. The president sighs, his lips split like two all-beef patties, juicy dripping bacon strip poking out from fluffy sesame-seed buns and the cameras zoom out because this is the sad part in the eighties teen movie where the guy’s holding the girl’s hand tightly across the seat on the way to the abortion clinic but nobody gets too bummed because everything will work out in the end, except for your average neo-socialist tea-peddler in Suez, the 12-year-old chain-smoking circumcised Tunisian who’s seen the helicopter’s ugly bubble cockpit, knows that within certain limits the Moon is as imitated as a soldier, meaning, this isn’t Pretty in Pink, or even indigo. The scrambled eggs are getting cold, the Swiss bank’s closed, and the wife’s on a banana boat getting elbow greased by a pimple-backed rugby star and “DONUT-HOLED-POLITICO-CORPSE-HERDER” didn’t sound so bad streaming across the HD monitor until the fatties get up to leave – another Mickey D’s run – and the camera guy gets a text to shut down and pack up shop – it’s back to Malibu or Akron because Charlie’s at it again (porno girls are hotter without veils, duh). Anyway, martyr as a color hasn’t been in since the Seacrest administration, which is an easier way of saying: this is over, kaput, finito, Nicole Kidman’s original forehead, Nicolas Cage’s original talent, and you’re starting to gain a much better understanding of the daily hardships faced by your average tropically inclined and terminally disposed multi-billionare. So snap one last picture, the scrambled eggs fading into the sunset, the president’s frail liver-arm resting on the shoulder of his secretary, a jolly turbaned fellow named Ibrahim with a cyanide prescription and a playfully ironic Islamo-Fascism fetish and somewhere on the less exclusive side of the villa little Susie Kowalski (vacationing from Poughkeepsie) is on Twitter asking Kim Kardashian why her nose looks so different from Season 1. Don’t get upset, it’s a requirement.
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Chris Vola's writings appear in a variety of real, digital, and imagined places. He is a frequent contributor to The Brooklyn Rail, though he eats and blogs in Manhattan.
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