Really, someone should have handed her an Emmy as she walked off the stage, just for keeping that “smile” from going full “rictus of terror”.
Photo: M. Caulfield (Getty Images)

In an incident that would probably seem, to the residents of an alternate universe, like something noteworthy or otherwise strange—but which registered to those of us resting gently in our boiling frog-water of a universe as just another fucking Thursday—the President of the United States issued an official communication yesterday that largely consisted of him dressing up in overalls and loudly, terribly singing the theme song from the 1960s TV show Green Acres.

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Said video (which was accompanied by the news that a new farm bill would soon be signed into law) was spawned from the Emmy ceremony back in 2005, when Donald Trump was simply a blow-hard reality TV star, a man whose clownish ego and complete inability to feel shame were seen as fun—possibly even refreshing!—in a too-serious world. And while we’ve all been gently soaking in the oozing, oily surreality of Trump’s tweet over the last day or so, his old co-star had a more succinct response to being reminded that that particular moment of her life did, in fact, happen.

To be fair, it’s not Megan Mullally up on that stage, semi-nailing her Zsa Zsa Gabor; it’s very specifically Karen Walker, the character she played (and continues to play) to strong regard on NBC’s Will & Grace. On paper, it’s a good match: Like Trump, Karen is materialistic, vain, and disinterested in listening to others; unlike Trump, though, she has the occasional sense of an inner life or depth, because we’ve reached a point where our demands for our sitcom characters outstrip our needs from a head of state.

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There are, presumably, many ways to read Mullaly’s no-caps “no”. Is it a rejection of Trump’s attempt to co-opt her into his slimy orbit? The panic-induced kneejerk reaction of realizing millions of people have now watched what could not have been anywhere near the top-most enjoyable minutes of her life? A refutation of an industry in which a woman can rise, through sheer comic talent, to the heights of her field, and yet still find herself in a position where Donald Trump is allowed to place his overall-armpit-stink-reeking hands around her shoulders and stick his mealy lips on her skin? It’s hard to say for sure, but we’re gonna go with a shuddering, miserable “all of the above.”