Dave's Fiction Warehouse

W hat if you discovered that a friend or relative had been donating to Trump’s reelection? Not just shrugging off the malignant stupidity and breathtaking corruption of the last three years, but actually sending money to prop up the world’s largest sack of shit. Would it matter? It would matter to me. A lot. It might even be a deal breaker. In the Washington Post today, there’s a story about efforts to compile and publicize lists of Trump’s political donors. The tone of the story — “donor information is being weaponized” — makes it sound like outing Trump’s financial backers is a bad thing. I say it’s just the opposite. I understand that with friends or family, sometimes it’s best not to know. It’s one thing to harbor vague suspicions that someone might actually think Trump is not the worst thing to happen to America since 9/11. But you don’t bring it up. Because the second you know for certain, that relationship can never be the same. It happens. The relationship doesn’t end with a ba...

I would like to personally thank President Trump for steering Hurricane Dorian well clear of Alabama (and parts of Florida) through the sheer force of his will. That was a close one. If the president had not been closely monitoring the situation between rounds at his golf club in Virginia, this thing could have gotten rough. It’s still pretty bad: We have a couple of small branches in the yard and some puddles in the driveway. We will rebuild! Where do I go to collect my FEMA money? The other downside is that it’s kind of an emotional letdown. After five days of worry about flooding and the impermanence of certain trees nearby (and at least five unnecessary supply runs to Publix), we’re ending up with little more than a tropical storm — basically, a couple of regular Florida thunderstorms placed end to end. Very wet and very windy, sure, but fortunately we won’t be needing Trump to golf us through the aftermath. Just think: He could have gone to Poland after all!   One thing ...

D orian. Never met anyone named Dorian, unless you count “ The Picture of Dorian Gray. ” I finally got around to reading that a few years ago. Oscar Wilde. The book was sort of controversial in 1890. It’s about a guy who makes a deal with, if not the devil, then at least a Jeffrey Epstein-like character -- if Jeffrey Epstein had been a gifted painter instead of a gifted sex predator. The deal is this: Dorian may pursue a completely debauched and solipsistic life, with no consequence save one: the sum of his depravities will be reflected in the portrait.  So, given that, maybe it’s not something he’ll want to hang in the family room. Dorian will look OK in public, but that portrait: whoa. Every sin, it gets worse. Best keep it under a beach towel behind the StairMaster. And again, we’re back to Donald J. Trump, who notably (some would say exclusively) prefers paintings of himself. If there’s an attic in Mar-a-Lago, I’ll bet it’s home to one ugly-ass picture of the Orange One. We’re ...