Quiet, Piggy

Big Mac Don Has No Room To Talk

Donald Trump’s jowly countenance, greased in tawdry orange makeup and shining with the light of a thousand McDonald’s deep fryers, has in his declining years taken on a squinty, grainy aspect, a man who exists somehow in our plane of reality and in some cartoon dimension simultaneously.

As he’s grown older, meaner, and fatter, his cruelty has expanded to meet the decline.

There is a special circle of hell for men who look like Donald Trump and still think they are qualified to grade anyone else’s body, but he most certainly does and will always. That infernal neighborhood smells like the greasetrap of a cold McDonald’s deep-fryer, burnt steak, and flop sweat, and it sounds like a wheezing old man yelling at the TV in all caps.

On Air Force One, which is far below the standards of his upcoming gilded Qatari bribe jet, Trump pointed his finger at Bloomberg reporter Catherine Lucey and snapped, “Quiet. Quiet, Piggy,” because she committed the unpardonable sin of asking about the Epstein files and what he knew.

Not “Catherine.” Not “Ms. Lucey.” Not “you.” Not even the usual “fake news.” He went for “Piggy.” Again.

This is not a one-off, not a bad day, not Grandpa getting cranky before his Adderall kicks in. It is the purest expression of who he has always been, and it is especially grotesque coming from a man whose own body is a monument to sedentary malaise, seething resentment, and deep-fried denial.

Let us briefly review the physical vessel that just called a working reporter “piggy.”

Trump has been officially in the obese range for decades. Even Ronny Jackson, his own White House doctor, reported he had “put on a few pounds” and his BMI crossed the line into obesity.

This was, of course, the same White House doctor who had earlier declared Trump to be a magnificent physical specimen, an Adonis reborn, a golden exemplar of manhood, a ripped and jacked President with the mind of a quantum supercomputer, the genitals of a musk ox, and the body of a Tier 1 JSOC special operator.

Drugs are bad, and Dr. Feelgood’s medical fellation of Trump was so ludicrous I can think of nothing else to explain it.

After he was ejected from office in 2020, Trump let himself go, if such a thing is possible.

This was not exactly a state secret. You could see it from space.

The diet is legendary: Big Macs, KFC, pizza, steaks cooked to the consistency of roof shingles, then bathed in ketchup, and a Niagara of Diet Coke. Health reporters and dietitians still marvel at the man who apparently drinks up to a dozen cans of the stuff a day and treats vegetables with the same level of hatred Stephen Miller reserves for immigrant toddlers. (Full disclosure: I was a Diet Coke addict for decades. I’ve tapered down to 1-2 a day.)

This is the guy calling a woman “piggy.”

Trump’s relationship with food is not that of a gourmet or some Epicurean enthusiast.

It is grotesque.

It is defensive, compulsive, and entirely on brand. Fast food is his safe space. It is predictable, wrapped, processed, and served in a cardboard box that never asks him hard questions about his relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. His doctor can proclaim him “fully fit” until the end of time, but we all know the truth: he looks like a man who lost a fight with a Golden Corral buffet and then blamed the salad bar

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Fine. America is not a skinny country. A lot of us have weight issues, myself included. (Post-divorce, post-99% of all drinking life has seen me drop nearly 40 pounds, which is life-changing in many ways.) A lot of people live in bodies they wish were different. That is not the sin here. The sin is that Trump weaponizes other people’s weight and appearance to shut them up and shut them down. He does it to women, constantly, and he does it from inside a body that would, by his own crude standards, be the jiggling, roundboy punchline.

This “Quiet, Piggy” moment fits a lifelong pattern. He called women “fat pigs, dogs, slobs, and disgusting animals,” and when Megyn R. Kelly confronted him about it in 2015, he joked, “Only Rosie O’Donnell,” giggling at his own dull wit.

He called Alicia Machado, a 19-year-old Miss Universe winner, “Miss Piggy” and publicly humiliated her over her weight in the 1990s, a cruelty she is still talking about today.

It is always the same move: find a woman who will not yield, will not sleep with him, who will not flatter him, who will not pretend his lies are truth, and then hit her in the place he believes will hurt the most. Her body. Her face. Her sexuality. Her “value” in the cheap, cruel market inside his head, where women are either decorative whores, usable political tools, or enemies.

He did not call Catherine Lucey “piggy” because he’s concerned about her health. He did it because she asked about Epstein, the files, and what Trump knew. When cornered on anything that smells like legal exposure, he defaults to the playground, because that is who he has always been: a 79-year-old mean girl with worse hair and more indictments.

The hypocrisy is not subtle. A man who lives on a diet that would make a cardiologist faint, any objective medical reports would consider him as obese or overweight, who waddles on and off golf carts like a seal being coaxed back into the ocean, is out here assigning barnyard nicknames to women.

But here is the deeper, darker truth: it is not just about hypocrisy.

Trump’s body insults are part of his dominance game. He is telling that reporter, and every woman watching, that the price of challenging him is public humiliation. He is sending a message to every young woman in journalism who watched that clip: ask a hard question, and the President of the United States might turn you into a meme, a punchline, a target for his howling online mob.

When he sneers “piggy,” he knows exactly what will happen next. The MAGA comment sections fill with men with profile pics that scream “Mommy issues and erectile dysfunction,” calling a professional woman “fat,” “ugly,” “cow,” “libtard,” and “whore” in the same sentence. The same men who want tradwives and posture as chivalrous defenders of feminine vulnerability with their Deus Vult avatars are all-in on the insults.

He knows it, likes it, wants it. It lets him outsource bullying and garbage-tier behavior.

And he does it from inside a body he himself clearly hates. You can see it in the way he reacts when anyone so much as hints at his weight, his stamina, his hands, his absurd glued-on lemur-fur wig, and his Oval Office narcolepsy, and his declining mental state. He hides behind obviously massaged medical letters, choreographed photo ops, and weirdly specific brags about his “perfect” MRI “test scores” and “incredible” health that sound like late-night infomercials for supplements that turn your liver into plaster.

If this were just one more gross Trumpism, maybe we would roll our eyes and move on. It is not. It is happening in a moment when his movement is more openly cruel, more openly panicked, more openly fascistic than at any point in American history. They are quoting Hitler “ironically.” They are harassing women online as a civic hobby. They are treating every female journalist, activist, or citizen who dares to speak as a legitimate target for grotesque humiliation.

So when he says “Quiet, Piggy,” it is not just a personal insult. It is a signal to the Hate Machine that the next phase of this is not argument, not persuasion, not debate. It is humiliation and degradation as political weapons, focused on women who do their jobs too well.

Every time he does this, our political class tries to pretend it is just Trump being Trump. “I didn’t read the Tweet,” and “I haven’t seen that clip” are dull little lies the media allows Mike Johnson, John Thune, and every other elected Republican to get away with over and over.

The both-sides crowd shrugs. Some editor somewhere writes a headline about his “combative style.” Everyone pretends this is normal, that the President fat-shaming women who ask about a sex trafficking scandal is just another episode in the world’s worst reality show.

It is not normal. It is not acceptable. And coming from him, of all people, it is especially obscene.

George Washington understood that the new presidency would teach Americans what power looked like, so he wrapped it in dignity on purpose. In one letter to John Adams, he wrote that a president must “demean himself in his public character, in such a manner as to maintain the dignity of Office, without subjecting himself to the imputation of superciliousness or unnecessary reserve.”

It was a choice, a conscious tension between majesty and republican modesty.

He rejected monarchical titles like “His Highness” in favor of the simple “Mr. President,” yet carried himself with formality, restraint, and a careful sense of decorum, knowing every gesture would set precedent for those who followed.

Abigail Adams, an underappreciated observer of the Founders and their era, watched him at close range, saying Washington was “…polite with dignity, affable without familiarity, distant without haughtiness,” capturing how his personal bearing became part of the office itself.

For Washington, the dignity of the presidency wasn’t ego; it was a civic responsibility, a shield for the republic against the drift toward either the royal abuses they’d fought to end or the shabby demagoguery to which we’ve succumbed today.

If there is a polar opposite of Washington’s dedication to country, service and dignity, it is Donald John Trump, President of MAGA.

So, no, Donald Trump does not get to call anyone “piggy.” Not morally, not aesthetically, not on any plane of existence where the physics of mirrors operate. He is a walking case study in what happens when you feed resentment, ego, and fried food into the same human being for fifty years and then give him nuclear codes.

Catherine Lucey did her job. She asked the right question. He reached for his favorite slur and said the quiet part loud: women who challenge him will be punished, mocked, and reduced to meat.

No man who lives on a diet of corruption, cruelty, Big Macs, Filet O’Fish, KFC, and burnt steaks and spite gets to call anyone “Piggy” ever.