The President is wicked and crude. He nauseates me for a million reasons, not the least of which is his disgusting objectification and assault of women.
That’s why I’m not calling him Cheeto in Chief. I’m not making fun of his weight or his combover. At the rally in D.C. yesterday, I chose not to chant about his tiny hands.
I’m not making ghost jokes or inaugural outfit jokes about Kellyanne Conway. And I’m not making injection jokes about the Trump women. It’s easy (and feels good for a sec) to do that. But mostly it feels counterintuitive and counterproductive to me.
My life’s goal when I was 17, aside from having amazing hair daily, was to find the right gold sequined shoes to go with my sequined prom dress (without being too matchy-matchy). And to throw up enough to look thin in the dress. And for my boyfriend to never have to tell me again that while I was still smokin’ hot (no worries!) his friends noticed I was gaining just a leetle bit of weight. Before he dropped me off that night, I asked him to make a stop at the drugstore where I ran in to buy some laxatives.
As a memento of my vanity, the lining of my esophagus gave up (a long time ago) trying to grow back as anything but the same tissue as intestinal lining. Intestinal lining is tougher. I’m tougher now, too. I take responsibility for my choices, but I also know very well how outside pressures and expectations worked to make me sick.
I marched yesterday, in part, because I envision a world where people are judged on their actions and intentions. A world where my 17-year-old daughter doesn’t feel like she has to starve, puke, shit her guts out, or paint her hair and skin to conceal herself under the guise of enhancing natural beauty. I don’t want her feeling obligated to waste any portion of her life working hard to look like a piece of plastic in hopes it will help her to be taken more seriously. On that, I’m trying hard to walk the walk. I hope she knows. I hope I’ve done what I can to help her understand her real value.
I don’t care that he has orange skin. I’m not concerned about his hair situation. I’m concerned that the leader of the free world seems to be a terrible human being. As we’re trying to build something good out of what feels like one of our darkest hours, let’s try not to turn into him on any level.
R.L. SAUNDERS 
Rhonda, My friends and I have made a pact not to utter his name, not to breathe life into it, and to wait for him to cross the line to impeachment.
May I forward you Michael Moore’s 5 point plan? I am pledging to follow it. I am proud to have activated my daughter and my granddaughter.
Thank you for going to Washington.
Maureen
I follow exactly what you’re saying, the judgments based on his looks are low-blows, distractions from the real issues. *yawn* However, like the previous commenter — I have a really hard saying his name. Predator in Chief seems to be the best title that fits the bill so far… IMHO
Thank you for Marching on Washington! SOLIDARITY!
While I’m a fan of satire in general, I think any mockery in this case distracts from just how serious a subject this is. So very, very well put.
On a less serious note, your hair in your profile picture looks amazing so as far as the internet is concerned, one of your life goals is met. 🙂