After imbibing a heady yuletide mix of carb-infused non-alcoholic mocktails, along with the occasional accidental consumption of a gluten-polluted canapé at friends and family soirees, I felt I was due a detox. So, last week, eager to fulfill one of my New Year’s resolutions, I Ubered myself along to a Nature’s Holistic Wellbeing clinic and booked myself in for an intensive week of colonic hydrotherapy. I was assured that the treatment would cure many of my ills and would help with the ‘release of emotional wastes stored in the colon’. I must say, as expensive as it was (even Father was slightly miffed when I presented him with the invoice), it seemed to have worked because this morning I awoke without a care in the world. My depression and anxiety had lifted and there was no sign of me having a spastic colon. Thank the pagan deities!
Starting the day in such an agreeable mood was a new experience for me. As I munched on my breakfast, my head was positively flooded with thoughts of the exciting potential the day ahead held for me. My gender dysphoria was nowhere to be seen as I posed for my morning selfie, and my inner goddess declared me to be fierce! Then I made the mistake. A mistake I have since regretted with every fibre of my holistically-cleansed being: I opened Twitter.
Now usually, I only stay in my notifications panel because the tweets of the people I follow hold no real interest for me. But today, perhaps giddy with post-detox delusions, I pressed on the ‘Home’ tab. And there it was. A tweet containing a video. Foolishly I watched it, and instantly felt every bit of anger and anxiety surging back into my body like a raging tsunami. My chakras were shaken. My dysphoria returned with a vengeance and I suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to shave my balls in order to conform to patriarchal beauty standards. Tears soaked my cheeks as I remembered that white people who don’t hate themselves exist. My world was once again a cold and hostile place. It was as if the Skeksis from The Dark Crystal had sucked out my Gelfling essence and replaced it with gluten.
What was this video? I hear you ask. It was footage of Vince Vaughn, an actor I once saw in a movie I forget the name of, and he was sitting next to Donald Trump and CHATTING to him. Yes. You read that correctly. He was politely talking to him. Not screaming in his face. Not slapping him violently around the head with his open fists. No dear reader, he was not presenting Trump with a five-mile-long list of all the reasons he shouldn’t be president. Neither was he showing him photographs of Mexicans looking sad, while pointedly humming Pink Floyd’s most famous song. He did not use this opportunity to shit in his own hand and smear it in Trump’s already putrid face, Ron Perlman-style. He threw away any chance he had to ominously dangle an effigy of Trump’s severed and bloodied head in front of him and Melania in a stunning and brave display of defiance.
He did something unforgivable in my opinion. He had a CONVERSATION with Trump. Not just a conversation, an AMIABLE conversation. Now, this was already more than enough to boil my blood to critical levels, but then came the killer blow. Please be aware that what I am about to say next is nothing short of terrifying. Be warned. Jump ahead to the next paragraph if you are easily traumatized by pro-Trump propaganda. I will type a description of Vaughn’s vile behavior in 3… 2… 1… He SHOOK HANDS WITH HIM.
I'm very sorry to have to share this video with you. All of it, every part of it. pic.twitter.com/ELMbDHZbZq
— Timothy Burke (@bubbaprog) January 14, 2020
Seeing this appalling display of anti-anti-fascism has undone a whole week of colonic irrigation, and Vince Vaughn, I want you to reimburse me. Your foul and reckless actions have caused my intestines to spasm. You have muddied my inner tubes with your selfish and inconsiderate display of rank civility. Your thoughtless courtesy has refilthified my colon. You owe me a purified rectum and my lawyers will be in touch to see that I receive it from you.