Et Tutu, Brutus?

Wait, there's an image emerging from my subconscious, repeatedly forming and fading, a new archetype of inappropriateness and horror: pale and pudgy, Donald Trump in a diaper-tutu, otherwise unclothed and drooly, nervously active and impatient or pouty and pensive because the world isn't shaping or conforming itself instantly to his will. He's a vain, frustrated fop and a baby, having known only one authentic outcome in his life and angry at anything else--Donald must get his way and be fed and indulged.

No one and nothing else matters. Though, it's prejudicial and unfair to talk as if he's a card-carrying grownup because he isn't. He's an immature, un-evolved, parasitic little monster and brute, living a fantasy and an illusion--a larval drama of insatiable oral craving so severe it preempts or negates his humanity. He's a one-man asylum of arrestedness and a belching bambino squirming and pawing at the recalcitrant tit of cosmic largesse, assuming a false and unearned status as something other than the maggot he is.