Kathy Griffin Beheads Donald Trump

Desperation isn't a single moment in time, it's a spinning journey down the toilet drain of life. Kathy Griffin is Chelsea Handler in ten more years of limited to no work. Like Michael Myers after a decade's more confinement in an institution for the criminally insane. Hint, he doesn't get better and his face is now blending into his mask. Blame the plastic surgeons. Kathy Griffin does.

Griffin's cumulative audience has dwindled down to three twinks sharing an apartment off Fairfax in what they're certain is a life crazy enough for a reality show. They'll probably land one. Kathy Griffin might get a guest appearance if she shows up unannounced. 

Griffin's latest blind attention grab involves a photo shoot with Tyler Shields, a photographer who covers kitschy celebrities in fake blood and blows the socks of WeHo galleries with amazing flavored martinis. Griffin's tease photo shows her dead pan face, because she can make no other without Munster stitches popping, hoisting the bloody decapitated head of the President. It's hard to tell exactly where the cloying ends and the sinister begins. Maybe it never does.

People who have no understanding of modern politics will call the desecration of Trump an intolerable act of disrespect for the nation. You might as well call out the patriotism of a crack whore for singing Yankee Doodle Dandy while local aldermen ream her in her fake vagina. This isn't a political message, it's an existential cry for help from a woman dying in multiple ways.

Griffin isn't picking low hanging fruit, she's dining on the flesh already fallen to the ground and rotting. Metaphorically. She hasn't swallowed any actual food since 2003. Anorexia is the last sanctuary of the celebrity long term unemployed. Ask the Eskimos about the ice floe tradition for grandma and they'll nod and mumble the name Kathy Griffin and you'll get it.