Hello. Good morning. It is Monday, April 29, 2019, and today we must talk about the time that Moby claims he touched Donald Trump’s suit jacket with his naked dick at a party shortly after 9/11.
The Daily Beast today published an except from Moby’s forthcoming memoir, Then It Fell Apart, in which Moby says that he maybe performed something he calls a “knob touch” on Trump, but that he isn’t completely sure whether or not it happened because he was very drunk at the time, due to his grief over 9/11.
You can read the excerpt in its entirety here right now if you like or you can keep reading this blog because I am going to quote some parts of it to highlight, because they are making my brain feel like it is full of bees.
Right. So. Here is how Moby introduces the excerpt, for some context:
After September 11, 2001, the only way in which I knew how to process my grief was to stay drunk, do as many drugs as possible, and throw myself into whatever degeneracy flowed out of New York’s perpetually degenerate spigot. Sometimes the degeneracy was gritty and old school—cheap drugs in dive bars and sex in tetanus-y bathrooms. And sometimes the degeneracy was gilded—helicopters to Staten Island and parties with billionaires.
Plenty of people cope with trauma by self-medicating with alcohol and drugs. What many people do not do, in my experience, is pull out their dicks and touch people’s clothing with them at parties. There are also some things you probably shouldn’t link to 9/11!
The piece is, for lack of a better word, completely unhinged. The general narrative we’re working here is that Moby is partying with a group of friends (who call him Moby, and not Richard or Rich or something, which is strange but maybe if you’re Moby people call you by your stage name? Sure.) One of his companions is a model named Clarice who Moby is trying to impress.
Here is Moby trying to impress Clarice:
“Hey!” I said, once we were inside the party. “This is where I met David Bowie!”
Clarice’s eyes widened. “You met David Bowie?”
“Actually, now he’s my neighbor. We wave at each other from our balconies.”
“Come over later and I’ll show you,” I told her.
She smiled inscrutably.
Immediately after Clarice smiled inscrutably, the story rapidly segues to this (emphasis mine throughout):
“Dale,” I said, once we had ordered drinks, “tell Clarice about ‘knob touch.’”
“First off, you’re beautiful,” he told her.
“She’s a Miss USA runner-up,” I said, proud of my new friend.
“Okay,” Dale continued, “‘knob touch’ is when you take your penis out of your pants at a party and brush it up against someone.”
“Eww,” Clarice said, grimacing. “And that’s sexy?”
“No, no,” he said seriously, “it’s not sexual, it’s just stupid and funny. You only knob-touch their clothes, and the person you knob-touch can’t know they’ve been knob-touched.”
Clarice turned to me. “Have you done this?”
“No,” I admitted.
That... sounds like sexual assault to me, but sure! Just a little party prank. So what we have established here is that Moby is 1) drunk 2) fueled by post 9/11 grief and 3) unashamedly horny. I was 11 when 9/11 happened so I have not personally experienced that combination of emotions but I am willing to bet that it is a potent combination. Moby must impress:
“Moby, go knob-touch Donald Trump,” Lee said.
“Really?” I asked. “Should I?”
Donald Trump was a mid-level real-estate developer and tabloid-newspaper staple whose career had recently been resuscitated by a reality-TV show.
“Yeah,” Dale said.
“Yeah,” Clarice said, mischievously.
“Shit,” I said, realizing I now had to knob-touch Donald Trump.
No you did not!!! You did not have to do that!
I drank a shot of vodka to brace myself, pulled my flaccid penis out of my pants, and casually walked past Trump, trying to brush the edge of his jacket with my penis. Luckily he didn’t seem to notice or even twitch.
So where are we at? Is this a true story? Did Moby touch Donald Trump with his dick? I don’t know! There’s no resolution! The story then moves on to Moby taking Clarice home, whereafter they sit on his roof and think sadly about 9/11 and talk about whether or not they’ll stay in New York. The wildest thing about this story is it would be equally believable, in my opinion, if the parties were switched, and it were Moby writing about the time that Trump brushed him with his flaccid hog. What do you think? What should we think about this? I really don’t know where to go from here. Is this just Moby trying to capitalize on the current moment in his new book, while also telling on himself for being what appears to be an atrocious human being that rubs his dick on people at parties? Is it a cry for help? I truly do not know what to think. Sound off in the comments as this blog is mercifully done now.