I'll start with a question: Why would anybody pay $52,000 for curtains?
Curtains? Curtains??? Curtains are a piece of cloth in front of a window, right? At least, that's what they are on MY planet. So, unless you're curtaining the entire Taj Mahal, that would have to be some major fucking curtains.
The curtains in reference here are the ones in Nikki Haley's official Ambassador-to-the-United-Nations residence in New York. To be fair, Ambassador Haley had no choice in either the residence or the curtains, both of which were the brainchildren of the previous administration. Until recently, American ambassadors to the U.N. lived at the Waldorf Astoria. (Oh, pardon moi, no tea today, Elizabeth. I'm off to play the grand piano.)
Apparently, the curtains cost $52,000 because they are mechanized. (Mechanized?)
"All she's got is a part-time maid, and the ability to open and close the curtains quickly is important," sez Patrick Kennedy, top management official at the State Department during the Obama administration and acclaimed genius.
No wonder Scott Pruitt and Ben Carson thought they were entitled to their feeding frenzy. But, and this is pure conjecture on my part, I'm pretty sure that the vast majority of able-bodied people, rich or poor, can manage to muster the time and effort to open their own curtains. Without a decline in quality-of-life.
(Or why not just spring for a full-time maid? That way, the curtains get opened and closed without undue burden to the occupant, and somebody gets a steady and decent paying job. Just a thought.)
I don't care who bought the curtains. That's not the point.
The point is I'm tired of listening to the words "million" and "billion" and "trillion" tossed around by politicians, oligarchs, and other forms of human leeches while the homeless have become a permanent fixture on our streets. Something politicians, oligarchs, and human leeches might be left unaware of in the course of their $52,000 mechanized lives.
It's a global problem, to be sure. Not an easy one to solve. One person's luxury is another person's necessity, and where's the cut-off point? (Python jackets.) Does one forever eschew lipstick and venti lattes in order to better be one's brother's keeper? (For a more in-depth, and thoroughly entertaining, discussion on the subject, read my book, Pass the Vodka, an Underemployed Reader's Companion, chapter 15, "Logical Extremes".)
So who am I to judge? All I know is that the Washington Post has put the tab for the 2016 elections at 6.5 billion dollars.
I've got some bad news for you, sweetheart, and her name isn't Florence.
Let's face facts. Even though you are currently camped out in the West Wing, and even though you have amply (and ignobly) demonstrated your recent penchant (perhaps significantly recent) for spouting glowing rationalizations in defense of the political mustard gas emanating from the White House, the sad truth is:
Trump's just not that into you.
(And here I had a flash of Lindsey Graham and Rand Paul, locked in a life-or-death struggle, teeth filed to points, vying for notice from the Oval Office. It wasn't pretty.)
Though you may be the Flavor-of-the-Month, let me explain why Trump doesn't really like you:
You didn't go to an Ivy League school. Something Mr. Illiterate values very much. In lieu of a python jacket.
You have a southern accent, which firmly places you alongside Jeff Sessions in what passes for Trump's mind.
Trump will forever, and I mean forever, associate you with John McCain, try as you might to distance yourself from that good man. (You will probably get some help here from Megan McCain.)
You are short.
You are a toad. And Trump knows you are a toad.
All that golf, all the proffered friendship, all the moonbeams you've shot up Trump's ass in the course of your tenure as Head Boy, all of this is for naught. You will go the way of Paul Ryan, your predecessor in the Department of Mooncow, meaning you will be kicked to the curb as soon as your dweebiness starts to wear thin.
Remember what Jared did to Chris Christie? That's what Bannon is going to do to you.
And you will never recover. In spite of the fact that the people of South Carolina don't listen when the New York Times - or, presumably, any other source of reliable news - speaks. Sez you. Personally, I don't think you can be on the White House pep squad and remain in their good graces.
You have but one chance. If you can get General Mattis to run screaming into the streets (there are indications we're almost there), you might be able to score a cabinet post. If you can also get Jeff Sessions dislodged, there will be one for you and one for Rand. And everybody lives happily ever after.
Three reasons why John Hickenlooper should be President of the United States:
He's not Trump.
He's the governor of Colorado, where marijuana is legal.
His name is John Hickenlooper.
What more could you want?
And maybe Tammy Duckworth as his vice president? Think of the merchandise. Think of the t-shirts. Think of Americans smiling again. There is immense potential here. Would I spend good money to drink my coffee out of a "Hickenlooper/Duckworth 2020" coffee mug?