Tuesday, June 7, 2016

Are You KIDDING Me???!!

I am semi-retired from blogging, but every so often something happens in the world that begs for comment.

Actually, there have been many things going on in the world that have been begging for comment, and I think I should be congratulated for my self-restraint. 

But for those who miss my caustic wit, I would like to go on record with the following opinions:
  1. Donald Trump is a moron;
  2. Who is probably laughably under-endowed;
  3. And that may be the only thing Marco Rubio ever got right in his whole life;
  4. Whoever is counseling Hillary on her wardrobe needs to be fired;
  5. Immediately.
In a previous post, I had something (not positive) to say about Hillary's ruffles.  I'm still gagging.

But this:  THE JACKET.  I'm talking about that fiasco she wore in New York in April, which only today has been brutally dragged across my radar by some sadistic journalist seeking fifteen minutes of fame on MSN.com.

Armani.  Twelve thousand, four hundred, and ninety five dollars.  Good.  Lord.  Giorgio, how could you?  And I wear your glasses.

I mean, even if it were the most amazingly beautiful jacket that was and ever will be conceived by a human mind, WHICH IT IS NOT, nothing nothing NOTHING justifies the expenditure of $12,495 on a jacket.  Nothing.  Unless, maybe, it would save your life if you - for some reason - were suddenly dropped off on Pluto.  Granted, one could conceivably mistake Iowa for Pluto, especially after conversing with the residents, and this may well be where Hillary got off-track.  But she's had enough time to recover.

I'm going to make this short and sweet:  Hillary, remember that tabloid-fodder photograph of you swilling beer out-of-the-bottle in Colombia with your Secret Service homies?  The one where you looked sweaty and had your hair in a ponytail?  THAT'S YOUR LOOK.  Trust me.  Had you adopted this from the get-go, Bernie Sanders never would have had the chance to take up residence in the small corner of the American psyche that loves hedgehogs.

As a woman, I would really like to bask in these historic times, and I am somewhat disappointed by your choice of an ill-fitting, "Want some coffee, Bill?", Technicolor dream coat that literally screams "buzz kill".  But I am absolutely appalled at the price tag, as any right-thinking female would be.  Ask Angela Merkel.  

On second thought, don't.

Here's my advice.  

First:  Get rid of your wardrobe.  All of it.  Now.  Stop giving SNL ammunition.  I hope the results of that six-figure wardrobe rehab, to make you more relatable (Spell Check says that's not even a word), still have the tags on them.  I know you didn't go to the stores and shop for yourself.  Make the guilty party take it back.

Next:  Exempting your lingerie and shoes, please limit your shopping to:
  1. Goodwill;
  2. H&M;
  3. Denver Kush Club.
Voila!  Instant relatability.  It's not too late.  And the best part of it all?

The only accessory you'll ever need is a bottle of beer. 

Friday, March 18, 2016

Girl, Please.

So the other day I'm checking the Missouri primary results and...

...Oh. My. God.  What are you wearing?

Ruffles.  Ruffles?  RUFFLES???  Are you KIDDING me?

At least they look like ruffles.  They could be some other form of bunched-up material that doesn't do you any favors.  And they are dark blue.  Your fashion consultant (who should be fired immediately) probably convinced you that dark blue ruffles were "serious" and "presidential", yet at the same time "youthful" and a little "fun" and she (I say "she" here because no man - straight, gay, or indifferent - would allow you to show yourself in public wearing blue ruffles) was wrong.  Terribly.  You might be able to get away with white ruffles.  I'm not sure.  Check with Christine Lagarde.  

At least you spared us the horror of pink ruffles.  But...really?  

Hillary.  Call me.

We've got to fix this thing before it goes any further.  Enough with the Munchkin outfits.  Don't even get me started on the one with the big white rectangles standing out in high relief on your hips.  Your hips, girl!  Your.  Hips.  Who told you that was a good idea?  And why do you still speak to that person?  You're a gazillionaire and can not only afford gorgeous clothes, but you can also hire some brilliant fashionista to tell you how to wear them.  Don't tell me you don't care.  You've GOT to care.

Because as far as I can tell (and I really, really, REALLY hope I'm wrong), you are all that stands between us and Donald Trump.  Trust me on this: A good outfit will atone for the sins of a lifetime in the minds of Average American Voters.  It doesn't make me proud to say that, but the truth is they're more interested in Armani than Benghazi.

Since I brought up the subject, I should say a few words about The Donald.  Just in case I am ever in a position to say, "See?  I told you so."

At first I was as appalled as the next person about the man.  His hair alone raises questions about his sanity.  And I was more than appalled.  I was suffering from a full-blown case of "Trump Anxiety", which is a thing now, according to psychologists.  I recently read that our species has not evolved to the point where it can handle low-level, long-term stress.  As a result, humans react to ALL stress like they're being cornered by a bear. 

Which describes exactly what I was feeling and I found myself in the throes of an obsession, spiraling out of control.

Until I realized that Donald Trump is just Your Uncle Bob.  You know, your lard-ass Uncle Bob who belts his pants below his gut, bosses everybody around, bullies children, believes in right-wing conspiracy theories, and compulsively forwards stupid emails (do not give your email address to Your Uncle Bob) in the hope that SOMEHOW your brain will stop functioning normally and you will give them serious consideration.  If you are an intelligent and emotionally sound person, you only see Your Uncle Bob on holidays, and only because you feel sorry for your aunt.

In this way, Donald Trump is merely representative of a familiar - though, I grant you, repulsive - American archetype.  He is not the anti-Christ, counter-intuitive as that may seem.  But just remember this:  If Donald Trump gets into office, life will become one very long, very painful visit from Your Uncle Bob.   

Give that some thought.   

Before you vote.

For myself, I am firmly relegating all thoughts about Donald "Uncle Bob" Trump to the newly-created corner of my psyche which I have designated the "Zone of Avoidance", a phrase borrowed from the science of astronomy.  What this all means is that I can, using the process of creative visualization, send the mope into virtual exile on the far side of the Milky Way Galaxy.

And hope he falls into a black hole on the way.


Wednesday, February 3, 2016

Gotta Love It

Do you know why I love Angela Merkel?  Because she's attempting nuclear fusion, that's why.

Just sayin'.

I really need a Twitter account.