The Artifice of the Deal: Extract and Excrete

I half-expected the squadron of military helicopters to start strafing panic-stricken Alpine tourists as it bore Donald Trump to his Davos destination the other day. The sight of the droning machines on the bleak Swiss horizon has been aptly compared to the famous opening scene of Apocalypse Now. The more recent highly scripted scene lacked only the Wagnerian soundtrack to augment the sense of looming shock and awe, mayhem and insanity.

But not to worry. Because for all his populist rhetoric, Trump loves the plutocrats gathering at their annual confab of greed and do-goodery as much as they love them right back. All talk of Russian collusion, porn actresses, the attempted firing of Robert Mueller, dementia, and corruption took a back seat as Trump took center stage to soak up the genteel love he's been craving his entire professional life. The richest of the richest gripped their turned-up noses with one hand as they grasped their Trumpian tax reform windfalls with the other.

Save for the occasional theatrical boo from the rafters, everybody seemed very satisfied and happy. It shockingly turns out that the anti-Trump resistance is nothing but a big act to deflect the attention of the screwed-over masses from the real complicity and the real collusion: that of Trump with the global financial elite and the self-professed "thought leaders" among them.

Even the New York Times, whose own revenue and readership have reportedly skyrocketed from the #Resistance franchise, was willing to at least partially bury the hatchet as the artless Trump and the artsy Davos crowd did their intersectional thing. For when it comes to the rich growing richer (and buying more Times ads) Trump is just one of those necessary evils to gloss over when the glossing's good - for the extremely rich, that is:

Rather than confrontation, both sides labored for conciliation, at least to a point. For one afternoon and evening, at least, Mr. Trump threw no protectionist grenades and even broached the possibility, however remote, that he would re-enter a Pacific trade agreement that he scrapped last year, if it were renegotiated. For its part, the Davos crowd welcomed its top critic with a reception and warm words.

The mood was strikingly different from a year ago, when Mr. Trump was about to take office and the globalists meeting in this mountaintop getaway reeled in shock, panicked that his campaign promises meant the end of the movement they had nurtured for decades.

 A year later, many of the business and political elites remain dismissive of him, privately rolling eyes and using words like “madman,” but there was excitement about economic growth, and the tax cuts and regulatory rollback he has ushered in.

As long as one can roll one's eyes and tut-tut about Queens accents while raking in the dough, all is right with the world. One can save one's Botoxed face and resist gravity as one valiantly pretends to abhor and resist Trump. For when it comes to unmitigated greed, snobbery conveniently cancels itself right out with just the right injection of reverse snobbery.

 Peter Baker, chief interpretative scribe of the Times's palace beat, enthused
that that wascally wabbit turned his fluffy little tail and reassured the panic-stricken oligarchs. And why not, since his "sober" speech was mostly written by Gary Cohn, his in-house Goldman Sachs advisor? The populist version of Trump will make its next gala appearance next week at the State of the Union speech, said to be the product of the ultra-right xenophobic wing of the White House, aka Stephen Miller.

Meanwhile, one can always rely upon CNN, MSNBC, the Washington Post and the Times to dish the necessary dirt about how many Russian oligarchs are meeting secretly with the Trump contingent right out in the open, in front of the TV cameras and before our very eyes. The Russophobic narrative must be kept alive, albeit as a side-issue, as capitalists of all nations collude and connive in the spirit of good, global neoliberalism.

This go-round, liberal billionaire George Soros graciously played Good Cop to give cover to his fellow oligarchs as they all groveled before Trump. From the Times:

At a separate dinner on Thursday night, George Soros, the liberal financial trader and philanthropist, called Mr. Trump the vanguard of a new wave of authoritarian rulers that threatens open society.

“The survival of our entire civilization is at stake,” said Mr. Soros, while pointing a finger at “the rise of leaders like Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump.”

In the days before Mr. Trump’s arrival, the leaders of India, Canada, France and Germany used a series of high-profile speeches to mount an aggressive defense of the global trading system, while other officials worried that Mr. Trump and other nationalists posed grave risks.

Back in the USA, meanwhile, comic relief in high places abounds. Word is now out that when the Trumps requested a loan from the Guggenheim of a Vincent Van Gogh painting - Landscape With Snow -  to display in the private White House residence, the museum made them a snarky counter-offer of the solid gold toilet satirically titled America.  This iconic sculpture actually gives a whole new meaning to so-called shithole countries.

The artsy-fartsy offer made perfect sense. For one thing, the 18-carat gold toilet cost sculptor Maurizio Cattelan (or his investors) more than $1 million to make. And since oligarchs like Trump love to posture as "makers" rather than takers, what better seat of power could he possibly desire?

Sadly, Trump turned down the offer. Maybe it had something to do with thousands of Guggenheim visitors having previously used the fully functional commode. No amount of Lysol or reams of paper covering could ever properly sanitize it for the Germophobe-in-Chief's protection. Or maybe it was just because he already has a couple of toilets in higher quality 24-carat gold encrusted with diamonds and rubies. 

More likely though, Trump, like most mortals, prefers comfort over style in his most intimate excretory moments. Therefore, he's probably installed at least one Numi toilet in each of his many residences.

For one thing, if one is male, one's urinary stream is guided by the Numi's blue laser light so as to avoid groggy mishaps in the middle of the night. There's no need to even wipe oneself when one owns this $6,000-plus commode, because it actually washes and dries one at the touch of a touchscreen. Just like Trump himself, the Numi can spit out water and blow air at the slightest provocation.

So the creator of the golden toilet is understandably resigned about Trump's refusal of his generous counter-offer:

Asked why he volunteered “America” to the White House, Cattelan told the Washington Post, “Everything seems absurd until we die and then it makes sense.”

It even makes plenty of sense when we're still alive. It makes even more sense when we're clinging to a mere semblance of life by the skin of our teeth. 

Oh well. Donald Trump will always have multiple versions of the iconic kitsch called Apocalypse Now On Snowy Evening to keep him company in his empire's multiple throne rooms. He'll always have the smell of Davos in the morning.