Trishton of Cornhole
Clown World finally gets a proper mascot.
One of the few upsides to living in Clown World is its entertainment factor. I’m a big fan of the horror-comedy genre, for instance, and 🤡🌎 will often deliver that sweet, sweet mash-up in spades.
It’s not that I’m a fan of Clown World itself, exactly. The horror stuff is too realistic for my taste, and most of the jokes are too far-fetched to land. But such fanatics clearly do exist. You’ll see them pop up on corporate news networks and social media all the time, to remind us that severe mental illness and moral degeneracy aren’t barriers to financial success. And like all fans, these people need a living, breathing symbol, some cartoonish avatar that exemplifies their left-is-right, in-is-out, up-is-down franchise.
For four years running now, the job of team mascot has gone to a phenomenally gifted actor/rapper/dickhead named Jussie Smollett. In case you’ve already forgotten (and you’d be forgiven for doing so), here’s a 100% factual recap of his audition for the role.
He ticked all the boxes and then some. From the peculiar spelling of his name to his Black queerness (or is it Queer blackness?) to his uproariously incompetent staging of a hate crime, Jussie appeared to have it all. Add to that all the self-aggrandizing (“I’m the gay Tupac!”), the acute sense of entitlement and his unwavering defiance despite getting caught with blood red hands on the broken cookie jar in broad daylight, and you’ve got yourself the makings of a star. I’m talkin’ a real Mr. Met(rosexual), here!
Even Smollett’s pedigree was immaculate; a scion of a wealthy, politically-connected family with classic pinko commie roots, whose tentacles wriggled deep into the crevices of Hollywood, Chicagoland and, eventually, the White House. The sonofabitch was even a Disney moppet, once upon a time. Groomed for success, so to speak.
But glory fades, and so do the careers of second-rate TV actors with drug habits and a bunch of phony "friends.” Perhaps had Smollett followed up with an even weirder stunt since then. Pulled a Ye on us, or started wearing ballroom gowns and calling himself “Jussteen.”
But the hour is late, my friends.
The mantle must be passed.
Cometh the hour, cometh the man.
Enter one Jordon Trishton Walker, Pfizer’s Director of Research and Development- Strategic Operations and mRNA Scientific Planning (DRDSOmRNASP for short). Quite the spiffy title he’s got there, for a guy whose business function could probably be summed up as “Toxic Injection Pimp.”
Speaking of toxic injections, Mr. Walker entered the public consciousness through the interdimensional portal of a Grindr date. Unfortunately for him, his dinner companion had a different kind of "sting operation" in mind. Hopefully he or someone at Project Veritas thought to screencap Walker's dating profile before that, along with almost everything else about the man, was quickly and dutifully scrubbed from teh intarwebz. They even managed to bleach the Wayback Machine1 of this shrieking, flailing Pfigurehead of civilizational collapse2.
YouTube has (of course) already deleted the original undercover footage, which you can still view directly on the Project Veritas site. But intriguingly, they decided not scrub its blockbuster sequel, in which O’Keefe confronts Walker in a New York City restaurant about his disturbing claims.
Why?
My guess is that even our morally bankrupt censors know pure comedy gold when they see it. Or at least, whoever’s got eyes on YouTube’s ad revenues does; 1.3 million views in four days ain’t too shabby (and I can guarantee you that number is significantly undercounted).
Many of the pros3 have already taken a whack at this slime-filled Pharma piñata and his antics. I’d call the latter “utterly surreal” but I happen to be alive in the year 2023 with a functioning neocortex, so I tend to grade absurdities on a very steep curve.
As you can see, Jordon brings everything to the table that Jussie did, and much, much more. For example, he boasts not one, but two oddly spelled names (and that’s if “Trishton” is an alternate spelling of Tristan, instead of just some gobbledygook an overworked maternity nurse scribbled down). And unlike Monsieur Smollett, Jordon was smart enough to stage his own fake hate crime on camera and in front of witnesses. Even his phony police report was caught on tape.
What can I say? The guy’s a fucking pro.
But Jordon’s advantage goes far deeper than that. The key to being a successful mascot is to embody the team’s essence in all elements of your performance. If you’re Victor the Viking, for instance, you can’t go mincing along the sidelines, blowing kisses at the huddled and beerbellied masses in the stands. Jordon clearly understands this fundamental truth of mascot-dom. Every mindlessly frantic movement, every earsplitting spike in vocal frequency serves to faithfully convey the gestalt of Clown World and her devotees.
If you’re still not convinced, take another look at the way this motherfucker “fights.” Witness the poetry of his spastic, whirling ballet4 as he caroms off of cameramen, tables, chairs and walls, or slides around on the floor like a greased pig at a bowling alley. See how he's launched volleyball-like across the room by a one-handed shove, how he masterfully squeaks “Stop! Let go of me! Now you’re hurting me!” as he assaults a man in a (hilariously vain) attempt to destroy his property.
Most importantly, pay attention to the judo-like inversion of this situation in Jordon’s mind. Note his childlike expectation that not only is this unhinged temper tantrum a display of authority, but that his irrational demands will be dutifully carried out by his inferiors.
The prince hath been attacked by be’camera’ed honkies!
Ho! let the door be lock'd: Treachery! Seek it out!
He’s not even mistaken; notice how the ho’ in question meekly obeys this crazyass customer’s patently illegal command. It’s unclear if she’s a diehard fan of the C-Team, or just one of those poor, workaday souls who are petrified by clowns. The point is that both she and Jordon act as though he’s making a perfectly legitimate request here, most likely due to the superior ranking of his hand in the game of Intersectional Grievance Poker. If Walker was crippled too, she probably would’ve barred the door with her own body, or even clonked O’Keefe with a frying pan. Them’s the rules, kids.
Strange as it may seem to the un-trephinated, that interaction makes a lot of sense from Jordon’s perspective. For to fully epitomize Clown World is to believe the game is already over, that the Clowns have already won. Perhaps this naive triumphalism is best illustrated by Jordon’s panicked description of his plight to the cops:
“There’s one, two, three, four, five white people. I’m feeling very unsafe right now.”
“Unsafe?”
What an interesting choice of words, Pfizer man.
But merely being the paragon of a Woke, emotionally unstable, uber-entitled, neo-racist, crybully snowflake isn’t enough to describe this man’s eminent qualifications.
Consider this: According to the CW playbook, running to a bunch of college administrators or corporate HR staffers to scream for his binkie is very different than running to the NYPigD Blue. On the surface, this seems like an unforced (and perhaps unforgivable) error on Walker’s part. To the untrained eye, his cancelation would be coming forthwith.
But remember: at the nuclear core of Clown World fandom is hypocrisy. Like Heat’s Neil McCauley. a true Clownie never upholds a principle that he can’t drop at a moment’s notice, or lob like a hand grenade when the wheel comes back around. They are not merely the boys who cry “wolf” but the wolves who cry “boy,” or any other shape or word that services their immediate sense of comfort and status. “#Defundthepolice” is all well and good for Tweet-mongering, but Jordon’s trying to have dinner, here! And this impudent cis-white-male oppressor/peasant dares to ask him some questions? Call in the S.W.A.T team!
The phone call was therefore a masterstroke of cog-dis: the wealthy black damsel, crying out for the Stormtroopers of White Supremacy™ to rescue him from his self-dug hole. Besides, surely those coppers would know what “unsafe” means by now, due to sensitivity training seminars and what-have-you? Perhaps in Jordon’s imagination, they would have tumbled out of a tiny blue car onto the sidewalk, waving billyclub-shaped balloons and blowing oversized rape whistles.
And once again — unlike poor, stupid Jussie — he got it all on tape. You figure a Disney child star would’ve grasped this elemental rule of showbiz. How amazing would it have been to see Sissy Smollett pretend to mix it up with those two Nigerian hulks? The memes alone would have been spectacular.
But even armed with such a recording of Jeet Kune Duh or Bungle Fu, he would still have been dethroned. That’s due to Jordon’s ace-up-the-sleeve, and his pièce de résistance:
Jussie Smollett was a celebrity who was caught in a lie.
He was paraded around in the media to tell and retell that lie. No one who wasn’t a Clown World fan ever believed it for a second. We laughed and laughed at how ridiculous it all was, and questioned the sanity of those who did. And even amongst those credulous morons, you could hear slight murmurs snaking through the stands. Much like when one’s favorite player commits a foul that's made obvious on instant replay, those murmurs never exceeded a certain volume. But they were there, praying the refs would somehow blow the call and move along.
Things didn't pan out that way, of course. Still, the chances remain high that Jussie will stage a comeback someday, as per Barnum’s Rule5. People expect celebrities to be degenerate liars, after all, and it's not like his lies affected them in any personal or financial way. He can pop up wearing a MAGA hat tomorrow, and slide right into the next harebrained scam.
Jordon Trishton Walker is a nobody who was caught in a truth.
He received no offers for public statements or sappy, softball interviews. He was instead instantly unpersoned and memory-holed, to the extent that some venerable corporate rags were still questioning his identity as late as Saturday. The talking heads of cabal news are prohibited from mentioning him (well, except perhaps for one). Like some monster of urban legend, even his (ex?)employer dares not speak his name. Nowhere in Pfizer’s Friday news dump of their uber-lawyerly non-denial/denial do they even acknowledge the events they were responding to.
Jordon will not be staging a comeback, because he was never here to begin with. He’s been rendered unhireable in the industry; not because of his infamy, but because loose lips sink ships, and it's hard to think of a looser pair in recent history. And if he were to try to go into private practice6, he’d need to tangle with some very interesting Yelp reviews at the very least. To move forward in life whatsoever, he may need to finish his masters' erase-job by changing his name. "Jorrdun" has a nice ring to it, don't you think?
No matter what happens next, “Jordon Trishton Walker” is gone, baby, gone. He will live the rest of his life unsung and unloved by the very team he cheerleads for. A suitably surreal fate, when you think about the FUBAR physics of the clown dimension.
And what better exemplar of our topsy-turvy Clown World than a clown who is sacrificed for telling the truth?
If it’s any consolation to Jordon, the men and women of Team Reality will remember him. For us, he is an eternal part of the permanent record we’ve been building, for the case we must eventually file and try. In that sense he’s more our “mascot” than the Enemy’s, and not merely for his entertainment value. Again, a suitably weird state of affairs, Mr. Frodo, here at the end of all things.
On a parting note, I find it fascinating that this 3D acronym’s excuse for disclosing Pfizer’s secrets was that he was lying to “impress a date.” I know I’ve been off the market for quite some time, but I can’t imagine bragging my way into bed by talking up my boss’s villainous scheme to invent new diseases and then sell everybody the cures. That approach strikes me as even less effective than old classics like, “You remind me of my ex-girlfriend,” or, “Did it hurt when you fell from heaven?”
Furthermore, if I were a gay man, and Walker’s reaction video was presented to me as some sort of vérité-style comedy skit, I would be outraged by the mean-spirited, over-the-top stereotype of homosexuality on display7.
“So you’re saying we’re a bunch of buffoonish, childish, emotionally volatile drama queens, who are prone to telling lies, betraying our employers and flying into fits of histrionic-yet-comically-inept violence at the drop of a hat?
“How utterly regressive of you!”
P.S. If you found any of this valuable (and can spare any change), consider dropping a tip in the cup for ya boy. I’ll try to figure out something I can give you back. Thanks in advance.
And if you think that’s impossible, just try searching for WaPo columnist/disgraceful turd Taylor Lorenz’s Twitter page there
That said, they apparently didn’t manage to pull a clean sweep. Perhaps they put someone of Jordon’s competence in charge of that particular op.
For what it’s worth, “Jimmy Dore” is a name that pops into my head when people ask me for an example of a sane Lefty. My grading curve is a bit steep there too, these days, given the way the traditional labor and/or civil liberties Left have since been devoured by that shambling, Lovecraftian horror some call the modern Progressive Movement.
Suc'Naath is one of the mindless gods which twist and dance in the court of Azathoth. It appears as a formless spinning hurricane-like thing with strings of violet and golden colors across its shape, constantly emitting sickening smacking and screeching noises while showing pain-stricken faces across its body. Just sayin’.
'There's no such thing as bad publicity.'
I’ve heard Walker might have a medical degree, though I have my doubts. If he’s actually licensed to practice medicine, that’s almost as frightening a prospect as yet another GoF vaccine development scheme.
I would not, however, call for your show to be banned. Gay Mark is still a man of principle.
Top shelf :)
So much fun. You are a wordsmith.