Sorry, Obama. And sorry to you, too, Bushes and Clinton. Thought you were retired, did you? Maybe time to throw on the ol’ dungarees, plop that ol’ ten gallon gourd cover on overhead and get out the chainsaw in time to cut some Christmas firewood?
And you, Mr. Clinton? Thought you had time to kick back after last year’s campaign and relax with your new grandbaby? Madame Secretary, your work isn’t finished yet, either. It’s time for you both, in function at least, to become part of this current administration.
And you, Mr. Obama, the time for relaxing in the sun with your family on Mr. Branson‘s private island is over. Hope you’re ready – it’s back to work for everyone.
Michelle, your work was reprised by a fashion model with the imagination only to plagiarize your initial speech as First Lady.
She’s seen as arm-candy, not meant to be heard, a prized possession of a domineering husband with a penchant for “locker room talk.” She’s a woman afraid, too afraid to crack a smile next to her husband as they step off Air Force One, and too afraid not to.
You and Barack and Malia and Sasha are fit to set an American example, for yours is a family rooted solidly in wise principle and sound character. It’s a sight all Americans with short memories-like mine-can take heart in.
If America was smart enough to choose this for itself before, it can be smart enough to choose it again. But now we find ourselves in a collective state of fight or flight. And the time for flight is done.
Donald Trump has made it clear, through his incompetence and sheer personal awfulness that he is not fit to be president. Initially at least, it was a job he didn’t anticipate and even openly stated he did not want.
So what to do now?
Just as the state of California circumvents Trump’s mindless disregard for climate change by sticking to the protocols it has established for its own cities so, too, must former living presidents join hands and unite in once again governing America.
Forget about “pivots,“ “changes of heart,“ or anything else that restates the mistaken notion that Trump will change. It isn’t real, and it isn’t funny. Change he won’t, change he hasn’t, and change he simply cannot.
The lessons of past presidents, living and otherwise, as well as all American history, and cherished ideals such as those written in the US Constitution do not figure anywhere into Trump’s idea of a “deal.”
These are lost on him. And, as it’s said of those who fail to learn from history, “...they are condemned to repeat it.”
Trump’s ignorance matters little if it’s merely his own existence that’s involved. But it’s America’s future- and its steadfast international influence - that hangs in the balance.
If such a Trump deal were to be considered art, America would be better served by a three-year-old wielding his first crayon. For it’d be within such a developing young mind that we’d see a similar display of creativity and, of course, maturity. Or, perhaps, a septuagenarian with an unwell mind.
No one is surprised when a three-year-old spills his juice, throws his crayon in a fit of pique, or poops himself. But for Trump it’s a way of life. The primary difference being, of course, that three-year-olds don’t golf and they certainly don’t grope women.
Trump’s tireless name-calling, his confused reasoning and his alternative facts are best kept behind closed doors, preferably in the moist darkness of a cobwebbed cellar.
There, at the very least, the pathetic death throes of the administration whose most noteworthy accomplishment is that it can strangle itself will be muffled. No decent person cares to see your sneering facade in the plain light of day.*
So good luck, former presidents and also to the gutsy former cabinet members who follow their lead still. Though you served your past terms with gusto, each of you still has my vote. And that vote is bipartisan.
It’s a lesson in American civics that future grade school students - those who survive global warming and nuclear catastrophe -might one day be proud to learn.
For now, however, Americans-and the world-might best be served by paying careful attention to the 25th Amendment AND finding the fortitude, like our forefathers did, to find the figurative musket balls to ACT.
*Consider this recent Reuters piece: https://www.usnews.com/news/top-news/articles/2017-11-07/trump-not-invited-to-paris-december-climate-change-summit-for-now-says-france
Monday, November 6, 2017
Friday, November 3, 2017
Rage Against The Xin Ping
Stay tuned for this post-it’s gonna be an ass-kicker. Few things light my creative, Tiffany-Trump-twisted fire than the Dotard-In-Chief returning to his real homeland. Whether he’s flanked by B-1s cruising overhead or not, the ‘Tard is the one who’ll bomb.
REM Sleep, REM Sleep, Where The Focker You?
Ever since I can remember, I’ve lived a very different life. Not too off the wall, mind you, just different in a good way. You might even call it weird and why not? As a teenager, my father dubbed me “Captain Weird” and, of all people, I suppose my parents would know. As teenagers developing into young people, unwittingly shedding our childhood ways as we plunge headfirst into the abyss of individuality, I guess we’re all pretty weird.
Maybe it’s a bit late for me to be reflecting on my youth now but why not? It’s all part of being weird, I guess. I’m probably not the only one who’s ever done so. In fact, right this very minute, one of my weird old high school buddies might be thinking the same thing.
Why is this even important, though? Well, I guess it isn’t. I’m just killing some time while I work through a spell of insomnia. I tend to do some of my best weird thinking at such times, and it just occurred to me that I might put some of my thoughts down for posterity this time. Maybe next time I have insomnia I’ll want something to read and, bingo!, here this will be. And to think people have told me I haven’t much foresight
Which, of course, brings me to the subject of predictive text. A moment ago, in the final sentence of the previous paragraph, as I typed in the word “foresight” my smartphone, in a moment of inspired confusion I guess, offered up the word “foreskin” instead. Maybe it’s because I dropped my phone one too many times, I don’t know, but who ever uses that word in anything but a medical report?
Uncircumcised (that word came up as intended and I’ve probably never used it before) men who don’t have a cell phone with a built-in camera so, in lieu of an actual “dick pic” they’re reduced to writing about their genitalia, maybe? No, seriously, I’m asking you.
That’s definitely weird, and something only my local Republican state representative who probably votes against sensitive issues like family planning and abortion (but is really a closet Democrat) could contrive. If that’s the case, that’s fine by me, provided I’m not required to read it. Hell, as a Democratic voter, I might consider voting for the guy in the next erection, er, election. Damn predictive text again. No, it really wasn’t-just me making a bad joke, though my predictive voice text might’ve come up with that gem.
But, not to be too repetitive, I’m probably as likely to talk about foreskin (this time that word didn’t come up as “predictive” at all) as I am my local congressperson.
How Jewish might I have to be for that to happen, you might (but probably aren’t) thinking? Well, I can think of at least one time that the subject of a newborn Jewish boy came up in a movie that led me to laugh a little too loud. In fact, it roused Sophie from a deep sleep and earned me the stinkeye for a good five minutes. Then, of course, she fell back asleep and forgot all about it:
The movie I’m speaking of is about the trials of a young man faces in introducing his future wife’s family to his own. Though I frequently borrow lines from this movie because I’m too lazy or too tired ( probably after having insomnia the night before) to think of something clever on my own, I cannot remember one from another.
I believe the movie to which I’m referring is called Meet The Fockers. As it happens, Focker is the young man’s surname. And, besides being a name my predictive voice therapy has a field day with, he happens to be, yes, Jewish. In the movie his father, (Dustin Hoffman) is incredibly proud of his family name which, of course, is something the son is somewhat ambivalent about. Maybe frightened is a better word, though.
It’s actually not his name that embarrasses the son so much as the fact his mother (Barbara Streisand, of course) tends to speak of her son as if he’s still a grade school kid. Only it’s worse, given the awkwardness of meeting one’s future in-laws in the first place.
One scene, which involves all of them looking over the young man’s past accomplishments and photos is worthy of particular mention. A few moments after the girl’s stoically protective yet hilariously funny father (Robert DeNiro) looks at an award and observes “I didn’t know they made sixth place ribbons, Greg” the next shot is of all of them.
They’re crowded next to each other, looking over the women as they flip through a photo album. The fiancé then turns a page, and a little something falls (Blip!) onto the table. The girl reaches down and picks it up and, of course, Mrs. Focker proudly proclaims “...and that’s our little darling baby Greg’s foreskin.”
At which time the daughter flips it back into the air where it plops into the guacamole or some such side dish. I could be wrong but I think the next scene is of them eating Chinese food instead.
So, there you go, that’s it. I’ve never used the word foreskin in my writing before and now I’ve gone and done so four times now. It’s proven to be enough for the predictive text to bring up the word now, so that next time I intend to type “foresight” I’ll be reminded of this one, weird, insomnia-driven blurb.
Pretty clever, eh? Clever enough to finally leave me tired enough to go back to sleep. Zzzzz…..
Maybe it’s a bit late for me to be reflecting on my youth now but why not? It’s all part of being weird, I guess. I’m probably not the only one who’s ever done so. In fact, right this very minute, one of my weird old high school buddies might be thinking the same thing.
Why is this even important, though? Well, I guess it isn’t. I’m just killing some time while I work through a spell of insomnia. I tend to do some of my best weird thinking at such times, and it just occurred to me that I might put some of my thoughts down for posterity this time. Maybe next time I have insomnia I’ll want something to read and, bingo!, here this will be. And to think people have told me I haven’t much foresight
Which, of course, brings me to the subject of predictive text. A moment ago, in the final sentence of the previous paragraph, as I typed in the word “foresight” my smartphone, in a moment of inspired confusion I guess, offered up the word “foreskin” instead. Maybe it’s because I dropped my phone one too many times, I don’t know, but who ever uses that word in anything but a medical report?
Uncircumcised (that word came up as intended and I’ve probably never used it before) men who don’t have a cell phone with a built-in camera so, in lieu of an actual “dick pic” they’re reduced to writing about their genitalia, maybe? No, seriously, I’m asking you.
That’s definitely weird, and something only my local Republican state representative who probably votes against sensitive issues like family planning and abortion (but is really a closet Democrat) could contrive. If that’s the case, that’s fine by me, provided I’m not required to read it. Hell, as a Democratic voter, I might consider voting for the guy in the next erection, er, election. Damn predictive text again. No, it really wasn’t-just me making a bad joke, though my predictive voice text might’ve come up with that gem.
But, not to be too repetitive, I’m probably as likely to talk about foreskin (this time that word didn’t come up as “predictive” at all) as I am my local congressperson.
How Jewish might I have to be for that to happen, you might (but probably aren’t) thinking? Well, I can think of at least one time that the subject of a newborn Jewish boy came up in a movie that led me to laugh a little too loud. In fact, it roused Sophie from a deep sleep and earned me the stinkeye for a good five minutes. Then, of course, she fell back asleep and forgot all about it:
The movie I’m speaking of is about the trials of a young man faces in introducing his future wife’s family to his own. Though I frequently borrow lines from this movie because I’m too lazy or too tired ( probably after having insomnia the night before) to think of something clever on my own, I cannot remember one from another.
I believe the movie to which I’m referring is called Meet The Fockers. As it happens, Focker is the young man’s surname. And, besides being a name my predictive voice therapy has a field day with, he happens to be, yes, Jewish. In the movie his father, (Dustin Hoffman) is incredibly proud of his family name which, of course, is something the son is somewhat ambivalent about. Maybe frightened is a better word, though.
It’s actually not his name that embarrasses the son so much as the fact his mother (Barbara Streisand, of course) tends to speak of her son as if he’s still a grade school kid. Only it’s worse, given the awkwardness of meeting one’s future in-laws in the first place.
One scene, which involves all of them looking over the young man’s past accomplishments and photos is worthy of particular mention. A few moments after the girl’s stoically protective yet hilariously funny father (Robert DeNiro) looks at an award and observes “I didn’t know they made sixth place ribbons, Greg” the next shot is of all of them.
They’re crowded next to each other, looking over the women as they flip through a photo album. The fiancé then turns a page, and a little something falls (Blip!) onto the table. The girl reaches down and picks it up and, of course, Mrs. Focker proudly proclaims “...and that’s our little darling baby Greg’s foreskin.”
At which time the daughter flips it back into the air where it plops into the guacamole or some such side dish. I could be wrong but I think the next scene is of them eating Chinese food instead.
So, there you go, that’s it. I’ve never used the word foreskin in my writing before and now I’ve gone and done so four times now. It’s proven to be enough for the predictive text to bring up the word now, so that next time I intend to type “foresight” I’ll be reminded of this one, weird, insomnia-driven blurb.
Pretty clever, eh? Clever enough to finally leave me tired enough to go back to sleep. Zzzzz…..
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