Stormy

Guess who got a $130,000 check just before the 2016 presidential election? According to the Wall Street Journal, one Ms. Stormy Daniels, porn star (so I read), was the lucky recipient of the money. Michael Cohen handed Ms. Daniels the check. He is a head Trump organization lawyer. He says of himself, “I am the fix it guy.”

Since I am not cynical like most of you, my first thought was that Michael Cohen did the nasty with Stormy, and that he was protecting his most famous client from embarrassment. Turns out, Stormy Daniels met Donald Trump at a celebrity golf tournament in Lake Tahoe in 2006, the year after our leader married Melania. Michael didn’t row the Republican boat ashore, Donald did.

It could be entirely innocent. Stormy might have made a hole in one, the bet was $130,000, and the Donald lost the bet and uh, paid her. She might have bought a set of Trump Golf Clubs, with gold shafts, which cost $130,000. Sadly, for those good friends—the porn star and the soon-to-be President—there were holes and shafts, alright, according to other golfers who were at the tournament. Stormy, observers said, was more “licky than “lucky.”

Remember the character Preacher, in John Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath?” When our hero Tom Joad meets up with Preacher, he asks if he’s still preaching. No, replies the broken man. He used to drive women into a religious fervor, and when they’d fall on the ground, speaking in tongues, he’d look at those writhing women, God help him, and he’d lower himself on them.

Fundamentalist Christians, all Erskine Caldwell “Tobacco Road” and humping like bunnies, are the most oversexed Americans. Which explains why they love Mr. Trump, warts, shaft and all. Jesus God, Republicans are randy.

Other porn stars at the golf event in Lake Tahoe said Trump touched them inappropriately. Other porn stars? At celebrity golf tournaments? Are there no wives at these events? Certainly, Melania Trump wasn’t there. I’m not satirically outraged, I’m full blown outraged, that rich men get to, uh, play, uh, golf.

Moral depravity has set in. And since the evangelicals won’t rise up—well the women won’t, anyway—I will. I hereby invoke John Paul Sartre’s “Credo of Existential Malefaction Entirely Not Titillating,” or CEMENT (see-men-t). My motto: If I can’t have Stormy, you can’t.

Sisters, will you join me? Will you sit across the dining room table tonight and glare at your husbands? Will you bury their golf clubs in the cold, cold ground? Will you spit out the word “stormy” with vitriol and venom? Will you whisper, “I know what you’re thinking?” And watch the hubby squirm with guilt.

The rich don’t suffer guilt. They buy. They burn. They bandy about. They ogle teens. They ooze oil. They orate and obloquy. They disgust me.

Unless one of them sends me a check for $130,000 and arranges a date for me with Stormy D.

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