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 thepre-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.
“I’m pretty sure no one here has a single clue as to what they’re doing.”
Somewhere between the third and eighth security check, my negativity went from frustration to sadness to anger. It made scheduled on-time stops at “what the fuck?” and “you’ve got to be kidding me!” I’m immensely familiar with both neighborhoods.
I had arrived in Kenya a few weeks earlier with the rehearsed acceptance of an intellectual, tolerant liberal. “Their way is not wrong or right, it’s just different!” I’d tell myself at the first, second, and four-hundredth illogical inconvenience. And I’d traveled enough to know that each one of those illogical inconveniences was lining up in anticipation of my arrival.
I came from the air-conditioned, 246-years-removed-from-colonization Land of the Free. I’m a white man from a country—and planet—where white men historically get their way, and my expectations of “how things ought to be” are often just thinly-veiled privilege.
Thank goodness it has finally ended. The post-work sunshine was starting to interfere with my allotted hours of solitary introspection. Besides, what’s the point of the sun when my fields lie fallow and I shan’t plant again until the raven’s ca-caw at Spring’s first light! You know, those fields I tend from my apartment and such.
This time of year, I like to settle in with my sleeping cap firmly upon my head and drift off to peaceful slumber in the 4:30 pm darkness. Sure, it’s terrifying for my Uber passengers, but those control freaks need to take that up with their therapists. Or maybe choose an Uber that doesn’t have a sleeping-cap-wearing driver.
Recently, a deranged Canadian immigrant attempted to upend the government of the United States by means of violence. I mean, a deranged Canadian immigrant other than Ted Cruz, though that would have been a solid guess.
No, I’m talking about a different cuckoo Canuck, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to write his name here and give him the publicity of my 17 followers.
Every year, the Kennedy Center Honors are awarded to
venerable artists in the United States for lifetime achievement and impact on
I check my mailbox once or twice a year in the hopes I’ll be recognized. Truth be told, I really just want a cool rainbow medallion. I could probably save a lot of time and money with a trip to Michael’s, versus all that “honing my generational talent into a marketable craft” crap. Not to mention I could stop checking my mail outright. I never get anything, except Bed Bath & Beyond coupons and angry letters from debt collectors. Exactly how do you propose I catch up on my bills when Bed Bath & Beyond has such great deals AND an extra 20% off? It’s a vicious cycle. Get off my back, Visa.
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.
The Right in its current iteration is like the worst family you’ve ever seen play Family Feud. They’ll give idiotic answers that everyone knows are wrong. Rarely, they’ll land a correct answer, and the opposing Left Family will screw up just often enough to keep the Right Family in the game.
Steve Harvey will routinely meet their patently stupid answers with a confused, disappointed stare directly into the camera, followed by disproportionate amounts of raucous laughter and applause by the audience. Continue reading →
I grew up in the country, outside of a small town, which was itself on the outskirts of Houston. We lived in a doublewide trailer, sharing the land with yaupon bushes, pine trees, stray dogs, and mosquitos. Every summer, we’d gather around the ol’ thermostat and yell cuss words at it, in unison. It was the only time Ma would let us young’uns cuss.
Blame it on my seasonal allergies. Or maybe it’s my various ailments attributable to age-related wear and tear. Mostly wear, but no significant tears. For that, I am grateful, as getting torn sounds quite painful.
Perhaps I just suppress my rage, and it’s bubbling out of my assorted head-holes now. But I’m feeling that familiar “I’d like to punch a baby right in its adorable pudgy face” feeling that I get now and then. Continue reading →