Trump campaign manager Kellyanne Conway insists that the election polls are MacGyvered in favor of Killary. Apparently, probability theory doesn’t apply to The Donald. Conway claims that Trump outscores Clinton in online polling, where humans can cast simulated ballots anonymously, without being bullied by thuggish liberal pollsters. According to Conway, college-educated lefties have been dumb-shaming Trump voters into silence. A savvy political strategist, Conway has stolen an esoteric page from the ivory tower playbook by appropriating the works of French philosopher Jean Baudrillard, mapping an hyperreal demographic of “undercover Trump supporters” who will self-actualize come November, and win Trump the election.
Sounds terrifying. Millions of cyber-zombies materializing from the ethersphere. Could it be real? Only in a Blair witch kind of way. I conducted an online poll of my own. A mere ten percent of my one thousand and nine Facebook friends are voting Trump, most of whom, I’ve never met in real life. Cyber friends of cyber friends. They could be proxybots. So who are Conway’s alt-reality demogorgons? As a super judgy, liberal adjunct professor, I don’t have any Republican friends. I do have Republican family members. A few of them are somewhat decent human beings. The other five are voting for Donald Trump. Coincidentally, they are the shittiest people I know. As a po-mo Marxist ruffian, it is with great honor and distinction that I shame them publically. Here they are, in no particular order of lousiness.
My Uncle Phil (maternal) is voting for The Donald. Uncle Phil is the kind of guy who gets off on throwing women into bodies of water. Pools. Ponds. Lakes. Raging rivers and oceans. He chucks ‘em right in. As a boy, I’d watch him toss his hot as hell, one hundred and five pound fiancé into family swimming pools throughout southern Illinois. Poor Julie. Sometimes it was an unsuspecting push. Other times he’d drag her in kicking and screaming, clothed or bikinied. It didn’t matter. Occasionally, the impact would cause her top to fall off. When it did, Uncle Phil would celebrate as if draining a game-winning three-pointer for the Pacers. Uncle Phil owns a summer house in the Outer Banks. Back in the day, he’d invite the entire family out for Labor Day weekend. He needed an audience for the yearly plunging of his fiancé. He’d go full caveman on Julie, flinging her over his shoulder, and sprinting down to the heavy shorebreak. Julie would pound on his back, or knee him in the chest, but that never stopped Uncle Phil. He’s a big dude. Grabbing her by the wrists or ankles, he’d spin around like an Olympian, and toss Julie into the fangs of an oncoming wave. Sometimes she’d resurface with her palms or knees bleeding. Once it was her chin that got scraped. That was the saddest thing I’d ever seen, until late fall, when Uncle Phil pushed Julie into the lake during a family outing. She was wearing a turtle neck. She didn’t have the cynicism or foresight to bring extra clothes. Her sopping breasts quivered for hours. I didn’t stare. My greatest act of kindness as a boy.
Uncle Phil married Julie. They had two sons who grew into beefcake dumb-dumbs. Aunt Julie left Uncle Phil after finding a used condom in the ashtray of his Peugeot. Uncle Phil is currently married to Aunt Marie, who just so happens to be a vociferous supporter of Donald J. Trump. Aunt Marie knows everything. Just ask her. She loves Twix bars, and loves loves loves Apothic wine. She’s fifteen years younger than Uncle Phil, and only five years older than me. She’s been trying to get pregnant for years, but luckily, God has other plans for her. Her inability to reproduce sometimes gets her down, but overall Aunt Marie is super lively. She throws one mean Cinco de Mayo party, and by mean, I mean her and Uncle Phil wear ponchos and sombreros while speaking in mocking Speedy Gonzales voices all day. This year, a Looney Tunes chorus of Build the Wall broke out. Aunt Marie is quite the entertainer, the only person I know who stills tells jokes. She’s got hundreds memorized. Name an ethnicity, race, or religion and she’ll lay one on you. Aunt Marie has no qualms throwing the word nigger around, not publically of course. During Obama’s two elections, it was every other word out of her fat mouth. I called her on it. Her response? “I’m not racist or nothing, but I sometimes tell a good nigger joke at the table.”
My cousin Phil is Uncle Phil’s oldest son from Aunt Julie. Phil Jr. has serious problems. So I feel bad judging him, but here goes. Phil Jr. sexually assaulted a girl when he was fifteen. I’m not sure how, but Uncle Phil pulled some strings and got him off. Aunt Marie and Uncle Phil stood by him. In their words, “He didn’t rape her. He just fingered her real bad.” Now twenty-one, Phil Jr. is a diehard alcoholic, addicted to Demerol and Oxycodone, but his most disturbing habit is leaving condoms inside of women. After finishing, he’ll rest inside until completely soft, and then slide the penis from its sheath. He calls it Trojan-horsing. It’s his calling card. As of this week, Phil Jr. is sober. Sugar has become one of his new compulsions, turning Phil Jr.’s former physique more cake-like than beef. Unfortunately, thanks to AA, he’s become addicted to another opiate–religion. He’s dating a woman way out of his league. They met at rehab. She reminds him of Ivanka Trump. Next month, they’ll be taking a synchronized plunge into born-again Christianity. They’re both voting for The Donald. They agree with the man wholeheartedly. A woman who has an abortion must be punished.
Uncle Phil’s younger son is a UFC psychopath. Cousin Jared is bloated on protein shakes and steroids. He can barely raise his overdeveloped arm when saluting every goddamn flag he sees. There’s a kid from our town, who talks with a slur because Jared sucker-punched him down a flight of stairs at a keg party. Jared has also stomped skulls and choked kids unconscious. His only friend is his unneutered pit bull Gracie. The dog’s testicles are bigger than my own, but that’s not why I hate his master. Nor do I hate him for the Trump that Bitch bumper sticker on his RAM 2500. I hate my cousin Jared because he earned a near-perfect score on his SATs. The burly freak show should know better.
The fifth person I know voting for Donald Trump is my girlfriend’s mom. There’s nothing funny about this one. For the first fifty-six years of life, Joan was a beautiful spirit, modern dancing to Laurie Anderson, and painting Paul Klee color field abstractions. Joan expressed nothing but love and kindness towards all living creatures. She was a vegetarian. She bedded black men. Then something happened. She lost her mind. We’re not yet sure what it is. Some type of mania. She’s always had a touch of HPD with a dash of DD-NOS, but I think she’s totally gone ODD. It started four years ago when she started dating a republican, a retired army nurse who’d never performed cunnilingus. He also watched FOX News at top decibel 24/7. Joan’s open-mindedness got the best of her. She moved in with Bruce. Two weeks later, she was indoctrinated. Hannity and O’Reilly flashing before her eyeballs, full-blown Clockwork Orange treatment. Now Joan is skeeved out by homosexuals. She hates Muslims and Mexicans. Her Facebook page reads like Sarah Palin interior monologuing on crack. It’s depressing. Joan needs help. She insults her three daughters on a regular basis, for clinging to the pinko commie values that she raised them on.