As has been well-documented, our dearly beloved President-elect — the one with an ironic penchant for safe spaces — repeatedly took refuge during his election campaign in the proverbial locker room. Every time he did, I could not help but recall a semi-prescient New Yorker cover originally published back on June 1, 2015:
“Prescient”, because the New Yorker anticipated to some extent the sexist, misogynistic dynamic that would come to characterize this Presidential election. Only “Semi-” because the cover is a beautiful illustration of the degree to which nobody over there saw Trump coming. It’s easy to look back in sorrow at Obama ragging on Trump during the 2011 White House Correspondents Dinner, but that was over four full years before PEOTUS officially declared his candidacy for President. Just two weeks before the golden one glided down his gilded escalator, Amy Davidson of the New Yorker noted that “somehow, one of these seven men [depicted on the cover] is almost certainly right about his chances for the nomination.” Wrong.
The aforementioned irony is that Trump relied heavily on the “locker room talk” defense when he himself was quite obviously nowhere near any actual locker rooms, and hadn’t been for quite some time. Of course, his comments to Billy Bush were recorded on a bus, the Donald was hardly the only candidate left out of the picture (from either party; Amy dismissed the challenge Bernie might present Hillary in the primary), and I can’t imagine he wouldn’t insist on building his own private locker room anyway, but — any way you slice it — the very idea that this orange would spend any significant amount of time in the vicinity of a locker room is laughable on its face. This is, after all, a guy who claims to get all the exercise a 70 year-old could ever need by gesticulating wildly. And honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t plan to spend much time over the next four years praying for the President’s health.