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:
- Donald Trump is a moron;
- Who is probably laughably under-endowed;
- And that may be the only thing Marco Rubio ever got right in his whole life;
- Whoever is counseling Hillary on her wardrobe needs to be fired;
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:
- 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.