7/30/2023 0 Comments 2017 codepiece![]() ![]() I’m not even sure I listed all of them before I fell asleep again. I managed to settle down again by enumerating to myself all the reasons why I wrote Tess of the Road. I woke up in a panic, utterly convinced that this was a sign of impending Alzheimer’s disease. I entered the witness box, next to the piano, and the piano asked me, “Why, exactly, did you write this book?” The place was full of friends from high school (who were also construction workers, because of course they were). “The Wall”? The Muslim ban? “The media as enemy of the American people”? Voting fraud on an unprecedented scale? Codpieces – garish, overly-wrought and supersized like the ego, stuffed down his pants to make himself look bigger, sound tougher, strut better, brag louder but each still nothing more than a falsification of the facts, concealing something much smaller, less impressive, more reflective of a man grossly unprepared for the office who will spend the next four years in constant pursuit of the bigger codpiece.I was supposed to give a talk about Tess of the Road at a library (which was also a piano bar, as is so often the case). And where once his pursuit of a bigger codpiece harmed only a few around him – black tenants in the family’s Queens housing projects, wives and ex-wives, small business owners left holding worthless invoices, ambitious “Apprentice” contestants – now, we all have to be afraid of what this guy is trying to stuff down his pants. Now, however, Donald Trump is against all odds the President of the United States. While there is no way to tell whether our new President sports a codpiece under those expensive but poorly tailored, very baggy trousers, Trump has always looked for something that, in the moment, he could “slip into his pants” to make himself look bigger, sound tougher, strut better, brag louder, get more pussy than the next guy – all in an effort to salve the chafing of that monstrous yet acutely fragile ego, an ego more easily bruised than an overripe banana.Īt the risk of descending into Freudian analysis I’m not qualified to perform around what one might be missing either upstairs or downstairs that compels a lifetime of seeking, I’ll simply say that in this sense Trump seems to be in eternal pursuit of a bigger codpiece.Īt one time, Trump was not unlike the fictional Derek Smalls and other codpiece aficionados like the semi-fictional Gene Simmons of Kiss or the very real Rob Halford of Judas Priest (together with too many other 70s rockers to mention here) – all of whom were, at the end of the night, just after a little sin of the flesh, piece of ass, pile of blow but in a way that looked, felt and was a helluva lot more impressive than what the rest of us were able to snag and brag about.įor Trump, it was always a bigger building, a bigger casino, a bigger plane, a better piece of ass or a younger wife (sometimes in the same package), bigger (or “bigly’) ratings, a lower golf score (with a generous helping of Mulligans.) And if you think of the codpiece as the ultimate in “falsification of the facts,” you can begin to get a clearer picture into the mind of Trump at work: in many cases the bigger or “bigly” or “big league” superlatives offered up for envy frequently didn’t hold up to scrutiny, ending up - like even the fanciest of codpieces - to be concealing something much smaller, less impressive, more reflective of the small man himself. ![]() Smalls slowly comes to some realization, reaches down his (very tight) leather pants and proceeds to pull out an aluminum foil-wrapped cucumber, unwrap it, shrug and drop it on the table.Ī man and his codpiece – trusted chick magnet, essential accessory of “manliness,” comforting stand-in for a fragile ego. As she waves the wand over the befuddled rocker’s crotch, the alarm goes haywire and the rest of the band snicker uncontrollably. The buzzer still goes off so he is escorted to the side where an agent proceeds to scan him with a wand. There is a hilarious moment in the hilarious mockumentary "This is Spinal Tap" where the band is going through security at an airport and bassist Derek Smalls (played to sublime perfection by Harry Shearer) keeps triggering the scanner’s buzzer, forcing him to first remove metal objects from his pockets and then shed his studded leather jacket. ![]()
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