If you have people in your life who’ll tell you when you’re being an idiot, thank them. And thank God or the Universe or Fate while you’re at it. Not everyone gets so lucky.
Case in point: The former President of the United States of America, Donald Trump.
After hyping a pending MAJOR ANNOUNCEMENT for several days, everyone’s favorite naked emperor trotted out some magic. No, not like Magic: The Gathering cards, but you’re surprisingly close!
This magic came in the form of Donald J. Trump Digital Trading Cards.
I. Shit. You. Not.
The key to solving inflation, immigration, crime, fentanyl, gay marriage, abortion, sex trafficking, and transgender people using restrooms is simple:
We must investigate Hunter Biden.
I know what you’re thinking: what does Hunter Biden have to do with any of these real and imagined problems the ascendant Republican majority promised to address? Isn’t this just another case of the GOP leveraging the optics of a fight against a mythical dragon? And aren’t they more interested in fundraising from sheep who are scared shitless of dragons than in actually killing the non-existent beast?
WRONG. Hunter Biden is the pre-eminent threat to your family’s safety, security, and bathroom privacy. He’s coming for you, unless the Republicans can stop him. And they can’t stop him without your $27 recurring donation. Unless, of course, you want them to tell Donald Trump that you didn’t care enough to help.
In a few hours, I’ll be in my car.
It’s a nine-year-old Toyota Prius that bears nine years worth of scars. Rear-ended three times. Sideswiped by a crafty pole that jumped out of nowhere. One headlight is perpetually brighter than the other like it’s a nine-season NFL veteran. Still going strong. And one headlight is brighter than the other, did I mention that?
I’ve slept in that car, sometimes while parked. Gotten tickets. Sung countless songs. Done “other things” in that car which, if I someday become a world-renowned writer, will dramatically increase its Kelley Blue Book value when accompanied by this essay. I’ll sign a copy for you, just ask.
But today, I’ll be doing what I’ve been doing in the Prius for the last several months, ever since I closed my business. I’ll be delivering GrubHub orders to people’s homes.
Imagine you’re a reporter. After a long day of work, you
start having excruciating chest pains. You think this may be the end.
You call 911, and barely squeak out, “My chest is tight, I can’t breathe.” The minutes blur as you lie on
the floor, bargaining and pleading with your maker to survive until the
At last, the EMT rushes in. He comes to your side and
immediately kneels down to whisper something to you:
“I see you need my help. I can help you. But first, I want you to do us a favor, though. I want you to get on the news and say you’ve discovered incriminating details about my ex-wife. She’s done a lot of bad things, and it would really help everyone.”
Dear 15-year-old me,
It’s me. That is to say, it’s you, but from the FUTURE!
I’m writing to give you some perspective on the years ahead
of you, i.e. the years behind me. It’s 2020 now, and so much is different today
than it is for you in 1991.
In the coming years, a lot is going to happen. Some of it is
so insane, you probably won’t believe me. Then again, I’m assuming you’re going
to believe that this is a letter from the future, so I should probably maintain
this presumption of your gullibility for consistency’s sake. You were (are)
pretty naïve, as I recall.
Plausible deniability is a crucial component of any ongoing violation of laws or norms. If you’re going to intentionally engage in nefarious deeds, you have to have your story straight for when the eventual scrutiny (such as, let’s say, impeachment) comes.
That which you are straightening is indeed a “story” because
it is, by definition, not a true reckoning of whatever
drug deal you’re up to. It is at best a quasi-believable
version of events that counts on the listener giving you the benefit of the
doubt. At worst, it’s a thinly veiled lie.
In the past few weeks, we’ve gotten to see first-hand what
happens when we replace a political party
with a cult
of personality. Every standard, once etched into stone in our memories
and conscience, becomes malleable to fit the behaviors of the leader.
To paraphrase more intellectual commentators, we’ve
discovered that one man in our country can literally do anything he wants and will suffer no consequences…as long as he can
retain the support of any 34 members of the United States Senate.
I have a theory. It’s so far-fetched, even I don’t believe
it. But if enough people start talking about it, maybe it’ll help our country.
Or it’ll hasten our demise. I have no idea, I’m just a blogger, so take
everything I write with your daily recommended allowance of salt.
Unless I’m right, and then YOU HEARD IT HERE FIRST, FOLKS.
Donald Trump is an agent provocateur, leading a false flag operation on behalf of the Democratic Party.
It’s human nature to categorize things, recognize patterns, and extrapolate missing data. Actually, it might be better described as animal nature.
My dog Lemmy uses process of elimination to determine where I hide the treats. He might do so clumsily, checking the same spot two or three times en route to crossing it off his list. But he’s definitely categorizing and extrapolating, ham-handed (maybe ham-pawed, as it were) or not.
Lemmy utilizes basic cause-and-effect to recognize that giving me “sad puppy dog eyes” will nab him some of whatever I’m eating. Incidentally, both of us have the same favorite cuisine: people food. Maybe he cuts his losses with hard-nosed Mom, and doubles down on Dad. He notices a pattern: Dad is more easily swayed to part with the scraps.
For decades, our country’s love of football has crossed political, socioeconomic, and generational lines.
And by “football,” I mean the game played on a gridiron with a prolate spheroid inflated leather ball. The athletic contest that requires gladiatorial equipment to protect the players from gruesome injuries. The sport where the players incur gruesome injuries anyway when they’re hit by people in gladiatorial equipment. The spectacle that’s played in North America and literally nowhere else…except of course when we trot it overseas to play in front of wide-eyed people with no earthly clue as to what is happening on the field. The game George Will once perfectly described as “violence punctuated by committee meetings.” Continue reading