Trump’s Toilet Tarantula

Between two states made of desert, on a highway that rolls out like a drunk’s beer-burp, there is a rest stop that looks like a plantation, like a modern day Mt. Vernon on steroids, a huge, gleaming turn-of the-century-post-modern hulk of stucco and steel erected in more prosperous times to give the road weary a place to crap and masturbate in sterile excess and comfort.

Today, there are no cars parked, no eighteen-wheelers sleeping in the lot.

There are picnic tables of granite that twinkles under the char-broiler sun, but no trees to protect the niave traveler who sits unthinkingly on the smooth stone bench and burns a slat-shaped brand into his doughy white ass.

The walk to the potty-mansion seems to be made of crushed oysters, glass beads and pebbles from a meandering river that can’t be found in fewer than five hundred miles. And once inside, OH! The princess and the pee, I shit you not! The sinks gleam, the floors are marble – it’s Trump’s Toilets. I open stall number one and the door slides open without creak or pause. The toilet paper roll is full and fluffy, and even folded into a little triangle, like some fairy maid ironed it into a perfect pull tab. The water is still, clear and serene. Feng shui on the highway.

BUT, dark and furry, on the rim of the bright white toilet, sits an enormous spider, a tarantula bigger than the size of my fist. It’s trying to hypnotize me with red voodoo eyes. It is very patient. It raises itself up on it’s back legs, surprisingly lightly for what appears to be a hockey-puck hot-glue-gunned with Wookie hair.

Either I am exhaling loudly between my teeth, or the bastard is hissing at me.

I picture it springing the five feet between us with lightning speed, wrapping its spiky, furry legs (they would probably feel like poison needles) around my head as it quickly devoured my face. First it would paralyze me, then eat my face.

I back away slowly. When I am out of the bathroom, I turn and run.

When an entire state is made of desert, the world is your catbox, right? Who needs marble toilets?