Free La Donalda!

The Queen was in a furious passion, and went stamping about, and shouting, “Off with his head!” or “Off with her head!” about once in a minute. 

For whom sleep is possible comes a measure of solace, only to awaken each day to a nightmare that far exceeds anything our dreamscapes can manufacture. It’s not just the mad queen that has us walking through a house of horrors on DMT, it’s the unraveling of all certainties that used to offer at least a simulacrum of a toehold. No more. The human race has gone certifiably, glitheringly, bonkers. So belly up to the bar, baby, and have a drink with me and ole Jack Torrance. Cast aside that doleful countenance for a moment. Stash that anxiety, confusion, and sorrow in a ziplock and let’s enjoy ourselves!

Granted, this lunacy has always been the case with our beloved species, but when your planet is turning into a filthy, overcrowded, overheated rat cage in the basement of a deranged pharmaceutical researcher in the employ of the Sackler family, things tend to go a little crackers. The researcher is wearing strange clothes and making videos of herself doing odd things, neglecting the tender care and feeding of her subjects, while they, the rats, armed to the teeth, are doing vicious, ugly things to each other.

So come on, let’s lighten up here and have some fun! It’s all going to shit anyway, right? What’s wrong with a little spin on the Good Ship Lollipop? Admit it, you’d love, just for once in your dreary, boring life, to cast aside the hair shirt of this socially constructed, stultifying “normality” and give free rein to that repressed, brilliantly-colored bird of paradise that flitters around inside. You know you would! Don’t just leave it to the other rats who’ve clawed their way to the top of the bloody heap!

Now, our mad queen. The tortured soul that currently inhabits the “white” house (white, not the absence of color but a composite of all the others!) is, indubitably, the ne plus ultra of our collective torment and repressed longings. We must feel as deep a compassion for him as we would for ourselves. We must yearn for his whiteness, in his whitest of houses, to pass through the prism of liberation and allow his true, brilliant colors to be visible for all to see, and for him to finally, joyfully, realize. There is not a moment to lose, for the longer this tragic repression exits deep within the soul of this sorrowful creature, the more perilous our enterprise becomes. Free La Donalda before it’s too late!

I see La Donalda revealing her true identity for the first time at the Palace Bar in Miami Beach (“Every Queen Needs a Palace”), a touristy, open air joint something like the Café du Monde sans beignets but with an extra, colorful twist. This would be a good place for her to break in, get a feel for it. She could dip her fungal-infected big toe in at “Friday Drag Madness.” See how the secretaries from Omaha respond. Get some feedback from the regulars. You know she’s practiced plenty in her little white house. Nix those rumors of prancing about in a bathrobe tweeting at five PM. The tweets, sure, whatever supermarket confectionary madness slithers into her ravaged calabaza, but the monogramed, velvet bathrobe, no! At that hour (not even his secret service detail knows) the glittering wardrobes come out of the vast, well-appointed closet, the boas, the sequins, the red vinyl gogo boots, the camel toe panties, that special bra, the décolletage, all of it! After a few appearances at “Friday Drag Madness,” feeling secure and comfortable in her new identity, La Donalda could go on to more exotic venues, the identity of which my prudent lips will never divulge. Surely La Donalda knows whereof I speak…

So come on, citizens, it’s our civic duty to liberate this, er, man! Let’s chip in with some encouraging tweets, calls (202-456-1111), post cards, (1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500), or emails. Get those Facebook posts going! The signs have always been there. The fixation on “pussies,” the curious effeminate locution, the odd, epicene gestures with those little fingers, the terrible hate and anger, the hyper-masculinity, all point to a classical Freudian desire to escape the boundaries of his cruelly-appointed genetics. He wants out, folks! Let’s give him the encouragement he needs before it’s too late!


Richard Ward divides his time between New Mexico and Ecuador. His novel about the early 70s, Over and Under, can be seen here. He can be reached at: