Nothing but his own feces: A Chinese ghost story for Donald Trump
Trump isn't Mussolini, or even Bertolt Brecht's Arturo Ui. He's not Huey Long, he's not Joe McCarthy. I look at his face and I see the ghost of nothing. No ghosts! It's as if he's been beating with a ghostbusting stick. As I indicated earlier, I'm pretty good at seeing ghosts in living people, but sometimes a person is two dimensional, so there's nothing for a ghost to latch onto.
Jeff Dorchen falls in love with a pug-nosed, depression-era looking lady ghost, looks into the Chinese government's ghost movie ban, stumbles into a book deemed Too Hot for Confucious, and finds stories of love, sex, ghosts, goats, ghost-goat-babies and even a tale for the specter of Donald Trump himself - appropriately involving death, fire and coprophagy.
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Jeff Dorchen
Jeff is a visual artist, songwriter/musician, actor, essayist, fiction writer, poet, playwright and screenwriter. He's been a playwright, songwriter, and performer with Chicago's Theater Oobleck since 1988, a writer and actor with Red Baron Films since 2000, and a contributor to This Is Hell! since 1996. He currently lives in Los Angeles. He writes the Substack, Right Twice A Day.
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