The News from Gridleyville

After national events of the past couple of weeks, I feel I must step forward. I’ve been silent far too long about this. It’s difficult to confess, and I’m deeply ashamed, but the truth must be told:

I am one of those people who are not attractive enough for Donald Trump to molest.

If I could do it over, I would. I’d go back and be born again, at a much later date, in a different gender and a much sexier body. Then I’d maneuver to sit next to him on an airplane or in a bar, and when he put his hand on my whatever, I’d turn and beam a big smile at him. Then I’d kick him in the balls and knock his teeth down his throat.

Which is not to say the women he’s groped should have done that themselves. It’s just a fantasy. But wait, Caitlyn Jenner’s pretty attractive and still, no doubt, has plenty of muscle. Can we arrange for her and Donald to meet in a club?

Probably, though, they’ve already met. I don’t know, I don’t keep up with celebrities.

Seriously, my fantasy illustrates a theme that’s been bothering a lot of people about the presidential race. It’s so vulgar. Did anyone think any candidate for high office in the U.S. would descend to such public crudity?

I have to admit, however—a real confession this time—that I’ve long been appalled at the vulgarity of American culture. I haven’t watched TV sitcoms since I was a kid, but when I happen to catch part of one and every joke is about sex, and stupid to boot, I ask myself: Is this all we Americans can think about? There’s nothing else funny in our country?

And though I have no qualifications as a psychologist, I suppose that so much joking about sex implies that in some ways we’re deeply uneasy about it.

Of course, I’m not a prude. In fact, I’m a child of the 1960s, when sex was invented. As a young man, I rooted for the revolution against the hidebound morality imposed by the antiquated folks past the age of 30. And, if I must say so myself, my novel The Big Happiness has some pretty darn good sex scenes in it.

Still, my distaste for Donald Trump is rooted not just in his policies (ignorant, biased, dangerous) or his fundamental character (selfish, devious, disrespectful, violent) but also in his plain boorishness. And a lot of my friends seem to have the same reaction. As my wife often says with a grimace, Ewwwww.

Confronted with Donaldian muck, the temptation is to respond in kind. For instance, I have to resist the temptation to refer to him as Ronald Rump—and worse, I’ve imagined creating a picture of his face merged with a bare ass. That would be totally juvenile, so I would never, ever do something like that, believe me, folks, never.

My fantasy about being reborn as a sexy woman so I can kick him in the groin is a more elaborate version of the same thing—responding in kind.

Therefore I post these remarks in bad taste to condemn the bad taste of the election season.

Which is an ironic way to say that our issues actually go much deeper than taste. Deeper, too, than (T)Rump’s own character issues. I’m genuinely worried about our national character. If even 40 percent of Americans vote for this guy, can we preserve the tiniest smidgen of self-respect?