In a society that has placed too much value on physical appearance, ad hominem attacks directly relating to a person’s attractiveness are nothing more than regressive, irrelevant jabs, and the person relying on them appears desperate and insecure. Furthermore, in this humble optimist’s worldview, most people don’t deserve it. Almost everyone is doing their best. Almost no one is truly evil. Almost.
But the ad hominem attack persists for one not-unimportant reason: it feels so good. And in cases where the the target has shown himself to actually be evil and soulless, and powerful enough to be mostly unaware of the peanut gallery’s ad hominems, there’s no harm in opening the floodgates once in a while, if for nothing more than a moment of catharsis. Say whatever you want about the ugly men in power; leave the intellectual debate to the experts with the verified Twitter accounts.
So, without further ado:
Steve Bannon Looks Like a Stack of Pancakes With an Axe to Grind
Steve, I know you must have lips. (Almost?) everybody has lips. And yet yours seem to have shriveled away, or receded into your mouth out of fear of seeming too vulnerable. Is that how the lower half of your “face” looks, or are you just permanently making an expression of disappointment? Could it be that your lips have come to understand the sinister murmurings that pass through them into the president’s coquettishly waiting ear, and they refuse to participate?
You look like you haven’t slept in decades. Perhaps ever. You look like you spend every night alone at the kitchen table with your head in your hands.
In some photos, when you appear to be smiling, when I assume someone behind the camera is holding up a photo of Ronald Reagan hugging Satan from behind, prom-style, you look like a beguiling big toe. Your “smile” raises the question: Is he happy for a moment, fondly remembering gauzy weekend mornings spent tangled up in sheets with Andrew Breitbart, or is he pushing out a hot, meaty fart?
Lots of men have trouble fitting gracefully into their shirt collars, Steve. While I don’t begrudge anyone over the slight pudging-out over the top of a Jos. A. Bank dress shirt, indicative of a man who has lived a life of such consequence that he can safely let himself go, your neck, Steve, looks like buttcheeks. At times you allow your beard stubble to sprawl from the lower half of your face all the way down your throat, creeping across the many curves and folds of your face (curves and folds can be very sexy in the right context- sadly, this isn’t it), creating an itchy landscape reminiscent of some highly-evolved reptile that routinely fears for its life. I’m not sure which I like less: the naked, raw, dimpled foothills of your unshaven face, or the sharp defense mechanism of coarse grey hair that sometimes obscures it.
Your teeth look like the smoggy skyline of downtown LA. I’d say more about that, but looking at your mouth gives me acid reflux.
You have the exact same haircut as Lisa Rinna.
You look like if Santa Claus went to prison for embezzlement, and then found that he sort of liked it there. Prison would suit you: the flavorless meals and hard, unforgiving sleeping surfaces would remind you of the life you led back home. I can’t imagine that you like very much flavor in your food, Steve, especially considering that your face already permanently looks like you accidentally ate spicy vindaloo after mistaking it for smothered meatloaf. You look like a smothered meatloaf. Blow your nose.
The constellation of moles around your hairline reminds me of what the kitchen floor looked like after the dog found and ate a used condom and had diarrhea, which he tracked around the apartment. Facial moles can be cute. Your facial moles are upsetting me. I feel triggered by your complexion.
There’s so much more to say, Steve, but I’ve had to look at your face as research for this essay, and now I need to go call my therapist. Please stop looking like that.