Trump's razor

In yet another vain attempt at self-promotion we have to---we simply HAVE TO react to Urban Dictionary's word of the day, Trump's Razor. 

Because. Yes, because (a) the Urban Dictionary plays an important role in the GREEN EYES, and there are also cameo appearances of (b) Occam's Razor, and even (c) of Trump himself. 

(Ad a) We have Raffael Beeblebrox, a senior editor of the Urban Dictionary showing up in CH. 5 of This Is Heaven and discussing John's neologisms (e.g., "i-Thing," and "adult parts.") Later, in CH. 47, we'll rerun this discussion on John's latest neo-finds (e.g., "out-plussed," and "cloud fart.") But...the best invocation of the Dictionary happens in CH. 23; Alex has returned to his apartment for the first time after his suicide attempt last week: 

The chaos of Thursday’s rescue panic is still in place, Ray and me dragging Alex’s OD’d body through the lack of space of this tiny apartment, low knee walls below the sloped ceilings, all chairs (two) fallen over, a coffee table (yard sale) fallen over, a small couch (yard sale) at an odd angle, a couch table (displaced), a helpless mini-rug (dog-eared), shards of a broken coffee mug spread across the rough-hewn floor. I collect a few pieces and arrange them side by side on the kitchen counter top. It’s merchandise spin off from the Urban Dictionary, saying SUCKING STREAK. There’s also a definition of the term, presumably, still spread across the floor, and perhaps not really needed.

Alex picks up one large shard with half the UD-logo showing, holds it up, hands it to me. “Let’s see how I disposed of myself,” he says. He looks around. A lone medication bottle resides on the kitchen counter top; he picks it up. “Oxycodone,” he says. “Excellent choice. Going out on a high.” He shakes—rattles—the bottle, some pills are left inside. “Good thinking,” he says, “saving energy. Plus, you swallow too much, you don’t die, you puke.” He cocks his head. “Must be terrible to wake up from a failed suicide.” He collects the remaining mug-shards, wavers, then tosses the pieces into the garbage can. He looks mortal. “Trying to make up your mind,” he says, “stupid.” He rattles the bottle again. “Stupid,” he repeats, “stupid.”

(Ad b) Occam's razor is an epistemological heuristics attributed to the scholastic philosopher William of Occam, which, simply put, suggests that the simplest explanation is usually the best one. And there it is, the razor, also appearing in CH. 47, in an exchange between Alex and Beeblebrox that has already been lauded as Firbankian by the all-knowing Perry Brass (the exchange). Here:

“Why is it, Alex,” Beeblebrox asks, waving today’s program printout at him, “why is it that cataclysmic events are always scheduled at mundane, convenient times?”
“I know,” Alex says, “It’s because twenty percent of the population believe Armageddon will happen during their life time.”
“Twenty five percent,” Ben corrects.
“Too easy, too easy.” Beeblebrox shakes his head.
“If you want more metaphysical, Raphael, you should ask Professor Bienpensant. Occam’s razor, look it up.” Out of nowhere, Alex has conjured four tallboys and hands one to each of us.

(Ad c) And now Trump. Trump's razor, somewhat unsurprisingly, is defined by the UD as the principle that "the stupidest explanation is always the right one." And Trump himself? Why, here, between the lines, in CH 30:

The debate has apparently started since Godehart is lying supine on the floor while the FOX-woman—-one knee on his chest, one mud-wrestling hand locked between his legs—-slaps his face and yells: “Liar, loser, liar, loser, liar, loser.” There’s a iambic rhythm to her thrusts that’s really catching on and the crowd is inspired—-clapping, jeering, gesticulating, honing in: Liar, loser, liar, loser, liar, loser. Somebody has managed to program a decibel dial onto the LED scoreboard above the proscenium which is moving off the charts as we speak (the dial). Godehart has apparently tried to be his old-school self and let the FOX-woman do her thing, but the situation is getting out of hand with blood potentially flowing and the FOX-woman about to turn her plastic fangs to good use on Godehart’s neck. “Hilfe, Hilfe, Hilfe,” yells the Wagner—-choking and crying—-and the scoreboard flips to asci code and translates, as if this were an opera house: “Help, help, help.”

The foreign candidate asking for welfare—-that really hits a chord with an audience steeped in self-reliance, and we have to fear for the survival of the bleachers squeaking under the pulsing stampede of too many real Americans.

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