Kim Kardashian & T.S. Eliot
I’m pissed! Kim Kardashian has just given birth, and well, this sucks. Sucks because this deprives us of a month full of pregnant Kim. A month full of big, beautiful Kim. A month full of tabloid shots in which Kim could grow into more astronomically and giddyingly, attractively large.
But, life goes on, as it must. (Sigh.) But I can yet glory in really big Kim! So, what follows are some cobbled together notes that I was working on but which kind of got lost in all my LeBron fantasias, among other things:
Standing in line to pay for our bananas and tick medication I notice that pregnant Kim Kardashian looks HUGE (unrealistically huge) on the cover of all the tabloid magazines. “They must be enhancing these,” I snicker to my wife as I rub anxiously at my neck. “O, no,” she replies, cocksure. “I bet she looks exactly like this.”
And I’m like “huh?” but realize, there and then in our honest, local Fred Meyer, that people aren’t making fun of or laughing at Kim’s exploding monster-physique they are, instead, idolizing it.
But let’s talk for a second about T.S. Eliot and Clayton Eshleman (what are you doing in a cave, Clayton? What are you doing?) and their Paleolithic sense, savvy and hi-jinx. Eliot, as you may know, climbed out of a French cave, and, dazzled by the figures of bison, horses and mammoth painted on ritual walls some 20,000 years ago, scribbled down, in one of his overbearing commandment-like essays, that the poet “must be quite aware of the obvious fact that Art never improves. . .that the mind of Europe (the Western Mind). . .abandons nothing en route. . .and does not superannuate either Shakespeare, or Homer, or the rock drawings of the Magdalenian draughtsmen.”
Note 1: T.S. Eliot was notoriously a “large rump man” and adored “lactating lasses.” (one imagines Eliot, when he dressed up as a woman, copiously stuffing the backside of his underwear– and in the height of arousal was wont to smear his nipples with drops of goat milk. Well, I can imagine it.)
Note 2: Clayton Eshelman, famous Cave Crawler and author of the wonderful Juniper Fuse, is always on the verge of crying out “mommy, mommy” and loves to startle unsuspecting dinner guests by blurting out “Triple Vagina!”
Note 3: I love much of Eliot’s poetry and even his pissing-in-the-wind arrogance. But, he should get beaten up regularly, if for no other reason than for using the word “superannuate.”
It’s obvious, of course, that we are in awe of and kneel down to filthy-rich and socially powerful creatures like Kings, Queens, Donald Trump, President Obama, Bugs Bunny, Bruce Springsteen, Mr. T, The Geico gecko, etc, etc—but we also need (as evidenced by Venus fertility statues which are contemporary to the cave paintings Eshelman crawled through as though back into a triple, animal-howling and sea-murmuring womb) to humble ourselves, groveling down before the physical largesse of the massive fertile woman.
And when the woman is both physically and socially large, well then we’ve doubled up and our little kneel-down brain receptors quiver and squeal and squirt almost uncontrollably.
It is not well known at all, to be sure (but it is 100%), that early drafts of that gentle masterpiece, Prufrock, contained the following lines:
“large-assed ladies come and go
Wiggling their treasures to and fro”
“Dare I go, bent, at this giant peach?”
Yes, in the early drafts of developing Prufrock, the “big” female strutted even more obviously, and triumphantly, through deleted shadows, worshiped in banged, stony whimpering.
The modern idealized version of the female “form” (skinny, vague and anorexic) is a total sham. The recent comeback of curves and big butts (thanks Miami, Atlanta, Rio, Brooklyn, etc) is just a glimpse-indicator of the true nature of our blood because, really, what we want, deep down, is a pregnant Kim Kardashian gloriously topping the scales at something like, let’s say, 150,000 pounds.
Yeah, we want pregnant Kim (in all her glitter and blind, doe-eyed grandeur) to make a pregnant Jessica Simpson look like a teacup poodle with a mosquito bite swelling on its cute little stomach.
And, then, after she delivers her Messiah to us (what else could it be?) we absolutely cannot have “our” Kim shed all that vast and godlike fat. No, we’ll make her idol- and God-up further. 250,000 pounds? Yeah. A million. Yeah, extravagantly. Obscenely. And praeternaturally. To hang, finally, over us like a brand-new, smoking-hot, glam planet, dripping jewels, QVC garbage and Instagram angels.
And, o, when Aliens visit “earth” millions of years after we’ve all disappeared I hope the only scraps they find are statues of great, big-shiny Kim Kardashian—and one tattered copy of Eliot’s “The Wasteland & Other Poems.” And maybe those Aliens will titter to each other: “Great ass. Shite poetry.”