Estranged Bedfellows: The Trump & Epstein Show
- andreasachs1
- Sep 4
- 6 min read
By David Weiss / Los Angeles
Irreality. Not existing objectively or in fact. Imaginary.
The above word sprung to mind recently when I pondered the tortured topic of Trump/Epstein, or how about just Trumpstein for short? The Twin Towers of Turpitude. Two Terrific Guys. And oh yes, duly convicted sexual offenders to boot -- let’s not forget their hard-won heraldry! True-blue American royalty, they are. USA, USA!
But let’s get back to the irreal deal, shall we? Why is this preposterous and depressingly tawdry saga of carnal lust and predatory manipulation so endlessly compelling? Perhaps because it walks such a fine line between fact and fiction, between B-cinema and low-budget pornography, a tale so lurid and grotesque it strains both credulity and common sense. And yet it does distract from minor glitches like the rise of American Fascism and uniformed troops in city streets. Reality is so depressing – I’d sure rather watch The Apprentice Masseuses of West Palm Beach. Let Rome burn – this X-rated sideshow is ratings magic! And unbelievably sad as well.
If I may beg your indulgence, I’ve deigned to morph old Sam Coleridge’s trademark theorem into the “willing suspension of belief.” For the last decade, we’ve been shaking our befuddled heads and muttering: “Can this really be happening?” And not just once or a dozen times, but on hundreds of brain-numbing, soul-killing occasions -- institutional erosion, moral lassitude, Lady Justice un-blindfolded and a distressed democracy hijacked by greedy bitcoin-barkers and rapacious Tech-tators. Makes one long for the days of Tricky Dick Nixon and Spiro Agnew, lowly misdemeanor offenders by comparison! Those were the golden days of the Republic, fer lord’s sake.
And of course, then you have the most retail-buyable Chief Executive since Sears, Roebuck. Yes, flattery will get you almost everywhere with a textbook narcissist like Herr Trump, but only cold, hard, untraceable cash seals the deal. Transactional they call him, but that euphemism masks the malodorous stench of state corruption and naked self-interest -- rivalling Czar Donald’s trillionaire gangsta pal, aka Vlad the Impaler or the KGB Kid. Not only that, Spymaster V has enough dirt on Dapper Don to launch a poppy farm in Myanmar (which he probably already holds deed to). Jeff Epstein was in the same racket as Vladimir Putin – kompromat, plain and simple. Turning people into assets without them feeling a thing – that takes talent (and pinhole cameras in the walls).
And you don’t need Ziggy Freud to tell you that Trump has a bad case of plutocrat/autocrat envy: the yachts, the real estate, the young women, the laundered-loot stolen from beloved Mother Russia – what’s not to admire about Rootin’ Tootin’ Putin? – he’s Al Capone and John Gotti on ketamine and steroids. But perhaps the most baffling phenom of all is that the masculinity-challenged King of Queens unabashedly loves this brutish, police-state murderer -- which should be just enough to keep you up most nights in the coming years. Welcome to the U.S.S.A. – your papers, please? Can you recite The Pledge?
Yes, it does strain credulity, the utter decay and demise of an already-suffering democracy in eight brief months. But perhaps the most irreal sideshow of all is the torrid Justice Department love affair with Ghislaine Maxwell, a woman whose very name reeks of arriviste pretension and an effort to “pass” as un-Jewish. She’s so posh, isn’t she – yeah, for a co-dependent rapist!
Looking at photos of Epstein are chilling enough – with his narcissistic leer and unctuous pride, but seeing Ghoulish Ghislaine with his furry paw ‘round her neck is like watching reptiles sloshing in the mud of privilege and pleasure without a moment’s regard for the young girls sacrificed in the process. Naked Girl Scout meetings with G. Maxwell as devoted den mother – and then Trump’s lackey lawyer Todd Bland serves her up softball questions with whipped cream and cherries on top – like he’s questioning Mother Teresa and not a convicted pimp and panderer! It just can’t be real – must be a streaming error on YouTube….
And as to whether or not one could actually prove that 00-“17” Jeff Epstein was “intelligence” (as Alex Acosta said), the feline-shrewd daughter of tabloid catch-and-killer, Robert Maxwell, certainly knew the racket when it came to blackmail and oppo-research. Like daughter, like dad – isn’t that sweet? He even named that fancy rowboat he” slipped” off of after little Jilly! Or did Mossad push poor Bobby Maxwell? We’ll likely never know – same for small game hunter, Jeff Epstein, strangled by a pillowcase or was it a handkerchief?
Yes, it’s a noble and enduring tradition, the sycophantic alliance between scurrilous sometime-journalists (Rupert, Maxwell, et al) and rich and depraved elites. Flip the coin of a muckraker and you’ve got a spy and vice-versa. They’re basically in the same gumshoe-and-gossip racket and even collaborate with each other covertly when duty or circumstance requires.
Does the tender tale of Stormy & Donald ring a bell? Pay the scarlet-lettered paramour for her stony silence, and the paper of wreckage, the National Enquirer, will send the hotcakes-hot copy to the dead letter office, never to sully Uncle Donald’s squeaky-clean rep as, say, “Chief Bra-Strap-Straightener” at the Miss Teen USA Pageant. As he proudly told Howard Stern:
“No men are anywhere, and I’m allowed to go in, because I’m the owner of the pageant and therefore I’m inspecting… ‘Is everyone OK?’ You know, they’re standing there with no clothes. ‘Is everybody OK?’ And you see these incredible-looking women, and so I sort of get away with things like that.”
Okay, we’re all grownups here, right? So we needn’t be in disbelief or at all shocked by the parasitic appetites of the rich and powerful, those well-accustomed to getting what they want without having to ask first. It’s a breed of slaveholder/patrician entitlement that traditionally came with reliable protection from the prying eyes of the law. Donald Trump behaved like, consorted with and turned a blind eye to fellow rapists like Prince Andrew and Gentleman Jeff Epstein.
And as ever, the Alphabet Mafia – FBI, CIA, NSA, etc. -- could be quietly persuaded to look the other way if the word came down -- as it so obviously did to those narcoleptic prison guards tasked with keeping an eye on the esteemed Lolita Airlines executive. Not to mention the shady financiers and politicians, marquee showbiz types and fun-loving academics playing against type. Bill Gates, Stephen Hawking, Al Dershowitz and Bill Clinton? If these minor-league Lotharios are our best and brightest seducers, we are in mortal trouble. BTW, all of them could have outed the creep decades ago -- and saved a few hundred young women along the way. Again, unbelievable what the aroma of wealth and hormones will do to an old lecher. Frailty, thy name is Man.
But as used to I have become to the absurd twists and turns of this sub-pulp fictional saga, I must say I was shocked to see how fast Lady Ghoulaine went from the spartan privations of Lady Sing-Sing to penal-world Woodstock. From gruel to gruyere without passing Go – call it magical realism or just more run of the mill irreality. Jaw-droppingly absurd yet perfectly plausible. What’s next, she’ll be appointed Ambassador to Israel following her pardon? You heard it here first. They’re plumb scared of old Lady Cruella!
To be serious just for a second, does DJT’s diminishing MAGA support – if it bears out – mean that karma has finally got ahold of the President’s tattered coat and he won’t quite manage to wriggle free? Don’t be certain -- Donald John Trump is more Harry Houdini than Harry Truman, that’s for sure – and he might well escape the rusty leg-irons of the law yet again. Alley cats have nine lives, and Felix the Trump has survived twice as many last rites than that and lived to tell the tale. Post-nuclear bio-scape? Fifty-trillion cockroaches and the inexterminable Tyrant of Trump Tower. Sequel rights, anyone?
David Weiss started out as a jazz critic for the late great Los Angeles Herald Examiner, then used their stationery to pen a phony endorsement letter to prospective record companies regarding his new band Was (Not Was). Eight years later, there were two Top Ten singles and a life lived with maniacal Boy Scouts in bunk-bed buses rattling across America, the United Kingdom and points beyond. Wrote songs along the way with Bob Dylan, Iggy Pop and Elvis Costello. Have since filed all manner of nonsense with outfits like the New York Times, Wall Street Journal, Newsweek and Forbes, covering no less than la dolce vita itself (golf, food and lodging) without fear or favor.
Trump won the last election-Hmmm.