IT IS PERHAPS A BLESSING for all of us that Tucker Carlson is not difficult to understand. He is marvelously uncomplicated after the fashion of, say, a grass-fed bovine turd. That is, it is abundantly clear what he is, how he got here, and where he’s headed. The larger uses to which he might be put are small in number, well-understood, and not frequently discussed beyond the malodorous confines of Roger’s Cow-Pie Palace and the flatulent stools at Adolf’s Bar and Gas Grill. Predictably, his purchase on the landscape is full of fetor, and it is nothing if not pewsillanimous. Actually, it is nothing.
Simplicity aside, there is no question that additional stink might surface at a certain level of scrutiny; turds are fascinating to proctologists, after all, and there’s nary a redneck rectum who wouldn’t covet a Carlson constitutional. But there is a price to be paid for proximity, and while proctologists may have the upper hand, the rest of us just end up feeling like...finishing the idiom.
The stench of such a small thing is similarly disproportionate, and one smells Carlson coming long before the shit-show hits the fans. Oddly, his fans seem to love it, swarming as they do over social media like, well, like flies. It’s as if he sees fees sans spoonerizing, which makes for fetid fake news of a seplorable dort. And small is in the nose of the beholder, because this particular scat is elephantine. Believe me.
So beware the boorish bravura, the pachyderm prognostication, the callous conviction that fascist shit don’t stink. Beware the tilted head; the quizzical brow, the dreary look of dumbass dismay; it’s a sure sign of sloppy sinecure, and everyone knows that he who smelt it, dealt it.
In the final analysis, the lesson, like the man, is marvelously uncomplicated. If it looks like a turd, and it smells like a turd; if it has shit for brains and a fecund foul mouth; if it reeks of rancid rancor that good folk renounce, it is nothing but a stool pigeon, and utterly full of shit.
By all means, step on it.