I know you’ve already seen it, and you’re probably already resigned to seeing it again, and again, all over the place for the rest of your lives, so what the heck, I may as well post it here too:
Wowsa. What a pose. That’s him doing his best Captain-America-about-to-dive-back-into-the-deadly-fray imitation.
He must have practised in front of a mirror for hours to get ready for his close-up. Probably applied a new coat of spray tan too. J.V. Last of the Bulwark had similar thoughts:
But Trump’s mugshot is excellent. I would guess that he had a duplicate setup to run tests on. His makeup is exactly suited to the light and camera. His hair is teased differently than normal to provide some overhang. The jaw-jut and downward tilt of the head hide his jowls. Combine those affects with his slight turn to the left (notice that his is the only photo in which you cannot clearly see both ears) and it gives his pose a vague sense of motion, as though he is moving forward, towards the camera and into a glorious future filled with retribution, perfect phone calls, and #winning.
Just our rotten luck, eh? Isn’t it just. The guy goes and gets his complimentary jailhouse portrait, which ought to make him look like a pathetic slob – everybody looks like a pathetic slob in a mugshot, for Chrissakes – and instead he comes out looking way better than anybody else who got booked that day, and better, in fact, than he’s appeared in anything else snapped over the last 20 years, maybe more. Here, compare and contrast with any of his co-defendants:
…or juxtapose it against any old photo you can find in a quick Google image search:
The Fulton County perp photo is way better, almost suspiciously so, and unsurprisingly, MAGA-world loves it:
Watters is right. He looks good. By God, he looks hard too. Amazing. I didn’t know the cops down there in Georgia took glamour shots, for the love of Christ. And where are the height hash-marks? It really should’ve looked more like this:
Plus, why isn’t he holding up one of those boards with his booking number, like you see in the movies? You know, like in this classic of Al Capone:
There, is that so hard? It wasn’t just back in the 1930s that they took such unflattering shots, either, nor do you have to be anywhere near as ugly as Donald in his natural state to come off looking like a frightened little boy who’s been sleeping in a dumpster. Look what they did to Hugh Grant:
Couldn’t they have thrown us a frickin’ bone?
Ah well. It is what it is. Chalk up another improbable win for Orange Idi. The winning’s just begun, actually, because now comes the part when Donald monetizes his arrest. Oh yes. Being as it’s such a nice likeness, the heroic photo is already appearing on all sorts of merchandise, including a menagerie of overpriced items being hawked by Donald himself. Behold the “Never Surrender” collector’s line:
Of course there’s Official Trump Merch! Why would he let them run a three ring circus without selling souvenirs? What’s that you say? Because it’s undignified? Unbecoming? Christ, not that nonsense again. Are you stupid or something? You’d let an opportunity of this magnitude slip through your fingers? You’d deliberately miss the boat and leave all that easy money on the table? Bullshit. You wear a hair shirt and live in a cave, with no use for crass material things, is that your story? Look, dumbass, or your holiness, or whatever the hell you want to be called, this is the greatest thing since his special limited edition collector’s set of non-fungible tokens! The T-shirts are going for 34 bucks! Holy crap, it’s a goddam bonanza! Undignified. Oy.
Now, let’s not have any spoilsports out there noting acerbically that his “never surrender” iconography was generated after he actually surrendered himself into custody for arrest and booking, pending bail. Let’s just enjoy the moment.
Let’s see now, we’ve got T-shirts, mugs, beverage coolers, bumper stickers – no bed linens or pyjamas yet, but they might be in the works, fingers crossed – you can buy the whole set. Just pay extra fee. If Donald gets elected again, maybe we’ll see it on stamps, too, or on the one dollar bill, replacing George Washington, if Donny can figure out how to charge a licence fee. Maybe cartoon villain Roger Stone will pony up for the right to get it tattooed on his back, right under the portrait of Nixon.
I’d jump at the chance, if I was Roger.
Heavy, exasperated sigh. He turned his perp walk into yet another mass fleecing of his legion of loyal marks. Only Donald. Of course, Donald. It really shouldn’t be surprising.
I hope I’m at least entitled to be exasperated, if not surprised, because gotta say, this whole booking process went almost entirely opposite to my happy imaginings. Donald wasn’t humiliated at all. I’m not saying they should have slapped him around or anything, but shit, man, he didn’t even have to sit his ass down and stew a little, anxiously waiting his turn, while they finished up with the day’s crop of miscreants. No, they hustled him in and out in about 20 minutes, in between his travelling to and from his private airliner in a motorcade fit for a latter day Roman emperor returning in triumph from his latest conquest.
There must have been a dozen black Suburbans, six or eight police cars, and God knows how many cops on motorcycles. It was like they were trying to make Donald look as Big and Important as possible, treating him like a visiting head of state instead of the tawdry little thug he is, and by golly, I don’t mind admitting that it pissed me off. Royally. Pundit Tim Miller, bless him (I’m a big fan), had the same reaction:
Yeah! Why the red carpet treatment? You’d almost think that American law enforcement is rife with Trump-lovin’ MAGA true believers, I mean, Jesus Oyster-Shucking Christ, he even got to tell them what he weighed for the record, and they took his word for it! I thought they were going to put him on a scale or something, and so must have a lot of other people, because bookies were taking action on an over/under of 275 pounds. Nope. More crushing disappointment. Officially, he’s six foot three, and 215 pounds, like an NFL quarterback in mid-season trim.
Sure, Jack.
I guess we’re going to have to wait for that big, satisfying hit of sweet, sweet schadenfreude. Maybe when Donald’s finally on trial, looking scared and sleep-deprived.
Maybe not.
Swear to God, even if they send this guy to prison they’ll probably find a way to make it an extra-special, super-comfy prison with a pool, and tennis courts, and flatscreens in every cell. Then we can buy the merch. The T-shirts will probably sport a heroic slogan like You Can’t Jail an Idea, or MAGA Trumps Iron Bars, or something like that. Maybe he’ll charge 40 bucks a pop – inflation, you know. The proceeds can fund his election campaign, after they change the rules so he can run for warden.
the needlefish 