Big Al, Big Kim and Little Don
by David Benjamin
MADISON,
Wis. — It’s fashionable at the moment to discern an uncanny similarity
between the “nut jobs” — one in New Jersey, the other in Pyongyang —
who’ve been, for several days, pissing figuratively on one another’s
shoes.
Indeed, both Donald Trump and Kim Jong Un have
superficial affinities. They’re both fat, they favor black suits and
they have weird hair. Each is spoiled, pathologically selfish,
ludicrously boastful and incapable of empathy. They’re both prone to
summoning up large crowds, before whom they love to brag, wave and
wallow in adulation. They’re both acquainted with Dennis Rodman, and
they both have nuclear weapons at their personal disposal.
But let ’s stop there. The parallel won’t wash.
Kim
waddles a straight line, leaving behind a trail of corpses. Donald
Trump struts hither and thither leaving tweets, like tiny turds, in his
wake.
Kim shoots his relatives when they cross him. Trump puts
them on the government dole. Kim is the third in a hereditary line of
ruthless mass murderers. Trump is a second-generation slumlord whose
only confirmed “kill,” so far, is a luckless Navy Seal named William
Owens.
Neither is a world leader in the political sense of the
word. But Kim is something genuine and scary. He’s a gangster. Trump is
not.
Like Baby Face Nelson, Kim seems unassuming, even somewhat
comical, but he’ll gut you like a bass on a slab if you so much as wink
at his sister. Trump, on the other hand, will invite to feel up his
daughter.
In Trump’s defense, there’s no question that he has
made sincere overtures to the wise-guy underworld. His career in three
colossally corrupt industries — real estate, casinos and Republican
politics — has afforded him ample occasion to rub shoulders with the
Mob. But Big Don is more Fredo than Sonny, more Wilmer than Spade.
Trump
doth protest so much against Kim because he’s jealous. Kim, at age 32,
is the Godfather Trump will never be, even though he’s president of the
friggin’ USA. Trump looks around and sees a world full of gangsters —
el-Sisi in Egypt, Erdoğan in Turkey, Mugabe in Zimbabwe, Duterte in the
Philippines and the capo de capos of ‘em all, Vladimir Putin. All
these goodfellas are merrily putting out contracts on their political
foes and snickering at Trump because he’s not allowed to kill Bob
Mueller.
The true capo creates an atmosphere of
unrelenting, oppressive fear. There is a sense about him that, in the
midst of ordinary routine and happy fellowship, he will suddenly explode
with rage and decide that someone, or some family, some city or perhaps
the entire population of Illinois must be mowed down with machine guns,
starved to death or beheaded with chainsaws. Afterwards, the body (or
bodies) should just lay there, baking in the sun and gnawed by dogs, as a
lesson.
Kim Jong Un learned this teaching style from his dad and
grandfather. North Korea is a mosaic of mass graves. Kim launched his
reign by killing — perhaps using the eeny-meeny-miny-mo method— a bunch
of generals, including his uncle. When you see Kim today in a photo
joshing with his generals, your best guess is that they’re laughing to
keep from crying.
In February, Kim ordered the murder of his brother, in public, with VX gas. Addio, Fredo!
Kim,
in sum, is a tough act to match. The best Trump can do, by comparison,
is a string of dead casinos on the boardwalk in Atlantic City. Up to
now, Trump has yet to snuff even a second cousin. Sad.
Like Trump
and Kim, many of our best gangsters have been showoffs. John Gotti was a
dapper dresser. Bugsy Siegel loved to shmooze with the press. Putin
rides horses with his shirt off. It’s a tradition among mob kingpins to
thumb their noses at their worst enemies. For Big Al, it was the FBI.
For Putin and Kim, it’s the United States.
For Trump, it’s… no, really? Sidney Blumenthal?
The
common thread in all this macho display, however, is that a great
gangster only puts his money where his mouth is when he knows he’s
already won the pot. For all his bluster, Capone never slapped leather,
head-to-head, against the Treasury Department. He knew the FBI was
bigger and more powerful than the Chicago mob.
For similar
reasons, strangely enough, we can trust Kim Jong Un. He might rattle his
sword at Seoul, threaten to nuke Guam, daydream about raining fire on
California, but he’ll never do anything to imperil his perch atop his
petty little throne in the heart of Slobbovia. Kim might be a grubby
little tinpot dictator who looks like the ugliest stuffed character in
the toy store window, but he knows exactly how big his britches are.
Like
any gangster, he knows how tenuous his dominion, how many others covet
his crown, how disloyal are his truest, dearest boon companions, and how
one act of bravado or one sign of hesitancy can bring it all down.
Kim
has seen the photos of Mussolini strung up in the square like a side of
beef. He has read of Capone exiled to Alcatraz. He has watched Warren
Beatty blown to bits at the end of Bugsy.
And Trump?
Remember
his first presidential trip to Europe. He was standing in a group as
new French president Emmanuel Macron approached. Macron seemed poised to
reach out and shake Trump’s hand. But at the last minute, gotcha!
Macron veered from Trump and rushed to kiss German chancellor Angela
Merkel, who happens to be Trump’s worst foe in all of Europe.
WWBAD? What would Big Al do? Or Joe Stalin? Michael Corleone?
Any one of those guys would have all made sure the snotty little Frog was sleeping with the fishes by midnight.
So, WDTD? What was his revenge for this disrespect from a lesser capo?
Did Big Don fit Macron for a pair of concrete overshoes. Did he come to
the black-tie dinner and splatter Frenchie’s brains with a Louisville
Slugger?
(Sigh.) No. All he did, next day, was start up a sit-down, photo-op wrist-wrestling contest with the snotty little Frog.
Guess who won.
Saturday, August 12, 2017
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