Dorian J. Trump

Dorian. 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 talking, what, 35 years of debauchery and cruelty? And that was before this corpulent swine unaccountably became president and added criminal stupidity to his sins.

Of course, the metaphor only goes so far. In the book, young Dorian remains outwardly attractive and superficially charming. Trump? Not so much.

He’s gotten fat and flaccid, and there is mounting evidence that his mental acuity is nearing that of HAL 9000 when Dave gets to the last circuit. Only Trump’s strange little hat of hair remains unaffected. Maybe in the portrait he’s fully bald, with brown spots and lesions where transplanted hair once thrived.

The hurricane will pass, for better or worse. So will Trump — but God, when? I’m watching polls the way I’m watching the hurricane track. Two disasters, and I think I know which will be judged worse in the fullness of time.