DT,PD!

“Honesty is the best policy.” – B. Franklin (a.k.a. Poor Richard)

“The unspoken truth is a lie.” – Anon.

These aphorisms are probably inapplicable to cocktail party etiquette (Duuuude, spandex shorts, mismatched socks, and sandals? Really??). But they have stood the test of time in other contexts. They came to BH’s fertile mind in the kerfuffle over the, um, assets of a certain presumptuous nominee of the GOP (Le Parti des Oignons Grands). You know who we’re talkin’ ‘bout, but some explanation is in order.

In the Blind Hog’s sty, the man known to the late, lamented Spy Magazine as “the short-fingered vulgarian, ” whose name rhymes with “dump,” is referred to only as “he who must not be named.” The Hog refuses to further an advertising campaign masquerading as a presidential candidacy by allowing an obnoxious brand name to pollute domestic tranquility, much less this blog. But HWMNBN doesn’t make the nut: it’s awkward, and wastes time on the inconsequential. And it seems only fair to find a more suitable sobriquet for a man who traffics almost exclusively in ad hominem attacks centering on pejorative nicknames (Lyin’ Ted, etc.). So, the public-service-minded Hog takes on the task, as he is all about the ad hoginem, and more than happy to get down in the mud.

As it happens, there is a fortuitous confluence between the question of the substantiality of the nominee’s junk and the need for a proper moniker. But, if only for the sake of propriety, there must be rules. Rule #1: No reference, even by rhyme, to the brand name/surname. Rule #2: It must be catchy, accurate, and lend itself well to slogans. And Rule #3: Maintain a suitable level of dignity (readers, all two of them, can decide what on that).

Having ruled out the last name, we are left with the first: “The Donald.” Don for short. A little free association: Don Johnson (oooh, but already taken), Don Giovanni, Don We Now Our Gay Apparel? The last has a certain perverse appeal, but it’s kind of a slogan unto itself. No, we need something more descriptive, more adjectival, more… short-handed, if you will. Little Don? Getting closer, but also already used (“Little Marco”). Petty Don? Trivial Don? Minuscule Don? Don Who Can’t Fill His Briefs? Let’s see, let’s see, something closer to home. Got it: Piddling Don, PD. PidDon. Donald of the Piddle (DOPE?). And we’ve followed the three rules. Followed them back to the topic, which was: honesty, and the unspoken truth.

During what passed for GOP primary season, Marco Rubio made an awkward attempt to piggyback onto Spy’s ingenious description, by implying small hands, small…you know. Although empirical observation confirms that things are often proportional, PD took the bait, guaranteeing “there is no problem.” Now, it being the political season and all, PD has said all sorts of unverifiable things (build a wall, make Mexico pay for it, I can be as presidential as the next guy, etc.). But this business of there being no problem is not one of them: it’s eminently verifiable. The evidence, or lack thereof, is as plain as the nose on the candidate’s face (but 2-3 feet lower, and obscured by the pants). Ordinarily, common decency would forbid further inquiry. But common decency and PD don’t belong in the same sentence (“I guarantee there is no problem”). And there they are in the same sentence. Irony is still not dead.

What’s a skeptical Hog to do? In the spirit of the philosopher Reagan, “trust, but verify.” Or Fra. Franklin: “Believe none of what you hear, and only half of what you see.” If PD wants to lose his newly minted pseudonym, he can no longer keep his D&B on the QT. No more unspoken truth. BH says: Drop Trou, Piddling Don! DTPD.  DTPD on TV! There is no problem? Then dispel all doubt!

Now, you may say this is beyond the pale, even in this foul political season. But hear the Hog out. This man (we assume) has run a campaign on the cheap, by layering the outrageous onto the appalling, knowing that the media will gladly give him free coverage, and that the public will eat it up. (And if man ist was man isst, well, best not to even think about it). So far, it’s worked, but now he’s graduated from the bush leagues (so to speak) to the bigs, the presidential erection, er, election (sorry, Freudian typo). He needs a new level of offensiveness, catapulting him to new depths of tastelessness. Something that will simultaneously horrify and engross the voyeuristic masses. And here it is, on a silver platter.

Think no one would watch? Then I’ve got a bridge over some swampland in Arizona I’d like to sell you. It could be an hour-long special, liberally sprinkled with ads for Jockey, Viagra, Jack Daniel’s (“I could use a good stiff drink!”) and Ipecac (“if you haven’t gagged yet, try an Ipecac attack!”). The ratings would rise steadily, yea, even turgidly, until the moment of truth, the climax, as it were. The world would finally know for sure whether there was a problem or not. And all within the aforementioned rules, especially the one about a suitable level of dignity.

It’s a win-win, folks. The truth would out, and, regardless of whether it was huge or somewhat less so (the truth: get your mind out of the gutter! Oops, too late!), and there’d be more publicity for Piddling Don. And for the American public, which can’t get enough of bread and circuses, not to mention “reality TV?” Well, it just doesn’t get any better (or bigger).

Worth a try, don’t you think?