Relax, this isn’t about Harvey Weinstein. I’ve already dealt with him here.

But since he’s still the Outrage du Jour, I commented on a Facebook thread about him by saying, “Why don’t these fat pigs just pay prostitutes instead of going around ruining people’s lives?” It was a rhetorical question but someone came back at me with something like, “Why do you want sex-workers to be mistreated? And what does body size have to do with this?”

Jesus! I will leave it to you to evaluate the self-righteous absurdity of that response.

I now realize that I will never, ever, be able to keep up with progressives. This makes me sad. Have they just gone too far or is it an age thing? Maybe I’m too old to learn the new rules. I think I even call my mailman “the mailman” instead of “the mail-carrier.”

I certainly think that Weinstein is a fat pig. So many predators and bullies are fat pigs! Here’s a collage that Max made for me, for a post I wrote in 2009.

I don’t see why we have to worry about fat-shaming our cultural villains, if they’re fat. We need to have some leeway with language or we won’t be able to speak at all. We old people especially have trouble with retrieving words and we shouldn’t be penalized for calling prostitutes prostitutes, for example.

Words are still a joy for me, even though they are evaporating from my memory bank in huge quantities. Today, when Obama staffer Alyssa Mastromonaco called Donald Trump a deranged animal, I felt a spark of joy, literally. I could feel my neural synapses light up and go ping.

Good call! I thought. And later, back to Facebook, I couldn’t stop laughing when a friend wrote:

My favorite pants right now are Eileen Fisher. Who even am I?

As long as I can still use and enjoy words, I will probably be able to put up with everything, including Harvey Weinstein. I’m just hoping we can quickly move on to the question of why that beautiful Marchesa woman married him, even if it’s gold-digger shaming.

As we attempt to brace ourselves for a Trump presidency, let’s address the matter of the favorite First Daughter, Ivanka Trump.

It’s no secret that Donald finds his daughter attractive. He’ s already said he would date her if he could, and he’s openly boasted about her “voluptuous” body.

For all we know, he picked out and paid for her resplendent implants, which are surprisingly similar in yardage to Melania’s.

In any case, pictures speak louder than words so cover your ears because this will be deafening:

I don’t like the way he looks at her and I don’t like the body language. Call me (or him) crazy.

I want to feel sorry for Ivanka. She was once powerless. How could she know what was appropriate or inappropriate?

But she knows one thing and that’s how to market herself and her Ivanka Trump products.

After appearing with Dad on 60 Minutes last night, Ivanka had an underling send a memo out to the press, asking them to note that she was wearing a bracelet from her own collection.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the monster, does it?

The Trumps are a gang of pimps and ho’s who all deserve therapy under Obamacare, which mandates that mental health be treated like physical health.

But meanwhile, our government needs to ensure that a Trump regime doesn’t become a kleptocracy once these grifters move into the White House and set the stage to blow up the world.

I finally got around to seeing The Wolfpack, but I was not prepared for it.

The true story of six brothers, aged 11 to 18, who were imprisoned in their New York apartment by their crazy parents, how could it be anything but dark and disturbing?

Somehow, from the promotional pictures I’d seen, I expected something more ‘quirky’ and lighthearted.

I knew the boys had learned about life from the movies that were their only link to the world outside. They were discovered walking down the street in the lower Eastside, dressed like characters from Reservoir Dogs, by a young filmmaker who ended up making a documentary about them.

Watching the family’s home movies, you see a group of children who are almost like puppies, clinging together with affection and loyalty and in the end, fear.

Fear of their father, a delusional South American devotee of Hindu, who didn’t believe in haircuts or exposure to the ‘poisonous capitalist society’ outside their front door, which he kept locked.

The mother has given up all power to her husband, who doesn’t believe in working but appears to like a drink or three.

The story is also a tale of resilience; the six boys are clearly damaged but somehow thrive. They are smart, sensitive, and loving. They are remarkably curious and life-affirming despite all odds.

But the picture of long-term abuse is just staggering. How does this go on?

It made me wonder how many households are run by little individual Hitlers, making crazy rules that no one has the nerve to disobey. The father here is like a paranoid Charles Manson without the charisma. A total shithead who somehow managed to get an idealistic farm-girl to buy into his delusions and bear him seven children.

The boys have a sister, Krishna, who was born with a disorder that keeps her tied to her parents, evidently.

Free Krishna, somebody!

One thing that startled me during this movie is the intensity of my revulsion for the Dictatorial Father. It is a visceral loathing that I carry around with me, ready to explode. All instances of dictatorial men, in books or movies or in the lives of my friends, trigger a deep antipathy, And by antipathy, I mean I want to kill them.

The Wolfpack father will never have to pay for his actions. All the petty authoritarian husbands and fathers out there will keep getting their way and ruining people’s lives. But why do women let this happen?

My own father left when I was 3 but maybe I’ve blocked out memories of his presence in the home. Or maybe it’s just the injustice of the situation that makes me want to kill these fucking bastards.

Everyone who has a daughter or who is in a position to influence young girls should make a point of teaching them to stand up and say No. Say No and walk away or run away if you have to.

It seems so obvious, and yet we haven’t made it clear.

See this movie for its unique gaze into the heart of darkness or because of the beautiful boys with the long silky hair.

But make sure you pass along the message to never let anyone control you. Ever. No matter what.

Who gives a shit if Ed McMahon can’t make his mortgage payments?!? I can’t believe he’s getting so much press out of this. I’m even reading that Ed’s money problem is “giving a face” to the nationwide mortgage crisis.

Ed and his much-younger wife were on TV, blubbering about their tragic circumstances. People actually called in with offers of help.

If that stupid old bastard can’t sell his $6 million mansion, he might lose it to foreclosure! Maybe he shouldn’t have had so many wives. Maybe he blew all his money on those flashy dentures. All he ever did in life was sit on a couch and go “Ha ha ha” when Johnny Carson told a joke. Then he bothered everyone with that Publisher’s Clearing House scam.

Fuck Ed McMahon. Let him start worrying about how I’m going to get these new Vivienne Westwood shoes.