Donald Trump has offered a few reasons for wanting to overwhelm and absorb Canada. Here’s my favorite, delivered to reporters: “This would be the most incredible country visually.” Trump looked at a map, I guess, and then boom. He imagined the US with Canada strapped on, maybe Greenland. An artificially enhanced nation, one with contours stretched to the limit. A souped-up, deluxe kinda baby. America, merely a great nation, would become a va-va-voom nation. It would be an America with big tits. Of course, Trump’s also sort of an ass man, so Mexico can’t relax either.
I don’t say the above idea must be true. I just don’t know why it wouldn’t be. Whatever wheels are turning, however attractive Canada’s mining and oil, I bet Trump looked at a wall map and thought, in effect, “That would be one stacked country.” Maybe somebody turned the big guy’s skull and got him checking out the possibilities. Steve Bannon or Vladimir Putin or Stephen Miller said casually, “Why do they have Canada up there? It could just be America.” But eye met wall map and the rest is history.
The absolute best argument against this theory is that the new America would be bulging upward, not outward, and probably Elsa Lanchester doesn’t interest our leader. But consider. The Atlantic and Pacific aren’t so interesting to look at: blank spaces with dots; everything belongs to the US, pretty much. Looking to our southern border means looking down, and anyway it’s only the second-widest border. Number one is northern and you aren’t looking down. Plus, wow, those Mercator-puffed landmasses. They’re floating up there, and you want to grab them and squeeze them, strap them on, something.
I mean that, when he’s standing in front of a map, the northern border of the United States is Trump’s best bet for looking at a woman’s chest, for the feeling of it. Each is an area of dynamic potential for him; each is therefore an area of riveting interest. He has become aware of the second, less likely, area because voters stationed him in his current job, where global maps are a feature. How this stationing happened is the murky, unlikely phase of the scenario. My part’s the simple, likely part: Trump looked at something long enough and he saw Anna Nicole Smith.
Big Tits America. First, this phrase sounds like something from the early-1990s: a zine, an alt comic, a girl grunge band, a nouveau burlesque revue. There’d be no hyphen, and the comic or zine would have scratchy drawings of Cindy Carol and photos of beatniks or embroidered cowboy hats or painted guitars in New Orleans.
Second, critics may allege that maybe I’m the one who’s thinking about Anna Nicole Smith, given that I just mentioned her. I must admit that Mr. Trump and I are highly sexual beings. In my case no nations have been threatened, nor any women cornered in out-of-the-way parts of department stores, with their clothing then pulled aside and their vagina penetrated by a pushy shithead’s finger. But Anna Nicole Smith’s okay by me. Mr. Trump and I have different ways of acting on our feelings, that’s all.