In an independent poll, 3 out of 4 American women say that Brett Kavanaugh reminds them of their rat bastard ex-husband.
Sunday, September 30, 2018
Saturday, September 29, 2018
Dear Mr. Avenatti,
What does an Italian girl say when a guy proposes to her?
She says, "Yeah, okay."
You know why. It's on account of she knows what she's getting into. That's because Italian families spend all their waking hours in one room together, usually the kitchen. So the girl has seen what marriage is really like, from her mother and father, her sisters and brothers, her uncles and aunts, her cousins.
And everybody else who's hanging around the house because:
And everybody else who's hanging around the house because:
- their families are non-Italians, and are therefore incredibly boring, and/or are the types that send their kids to "Bible Camp";
- they got no place else to go;
- the food's good.
So there's little romance in getting married and few surprises. You want happy tears of excitement from an Italian girl? Ask her if she wants to go to Vegas for the weekend.
This explains why there's so much drama amongst the medigans. They hide stuff. Or they think they're hiding stuff, which makes them act like stiffs, but it all comes out in the end and then they are SO shocked and outraged that you know what they've been up to. Like, how dare you. And that's why they have midlife crises. And nervous breakdowns. Their past catches up with them. What a surprise.
(Sound familiar? Brett Kavanaugh maybe? I swear to God, in the Italian dictionary, next to faccia di cazzo is that guy's picture.)
Not the Italians, though. Past, present, future, it's all in the kitchen. The really bad things are talked about in Italian, a great motivation for the kids to learn the language. But the kids also learn that they would have to move to Siberia if they want to hide something. They don't even try. My grandmother could tell if you were knocked up just by the look on your face. Better to fight it out in the kitchen, even if you get hit with a shoe.
So in my house there was no hiding anything. Unless you count the stash of guns in the attic, hidden in the secret closet behind the big dresser. I can tell people about that now, since the house is long gone and the individuals involved have passed away. Anyway, I'm not worried about being investigated by the FBI.
Nobody's asked me to be on the Supreme Court.
Actually Sicilian, but married to a Napolitan
Friday, September 28, 2018
I expected to wake up in a really bad mood today but I was pleasantly surprised.
True, silly optimist that I am, I spent more than eight hours yesterday watching the Kavanaugh "hearing" (their word, not mine), desperately hoping to detect some shred of human decency amidst that appalling display of mass hysterical castration anxiety. And there were shreds. But simply not enough. Lady Justices of the Supreme Court: Don't give him beer.
I have two takeaways.
First, I watched two people turn into Donald Trump before my very eyes.
Yes, I'm talking about YOU, Brett Kavanaugh and Lindsey Graham. As I watched the tantrums, your hands began to shrink. You grew tires around your middle. Your skin and hair turned orange, and creepy white pouches bulged beneath your red-rimmed eyes. Your hair turned into Medusa-inspired rat's nests. And the lies and deceptions and deflections spewed in torrents from your mouths.
You became host bodies for the Great Orange Blight. (Nice audition for Jeff Sessions' job, Lindsey.)
Was I scared? Last night I was. And depressed.
But this morning, I had a breakthrough realization. I remember reading in a book by Ray Bradbury something about the monsters who come and eat your soul when you wake up in the middle of the night.
We all have them. I do. You do, too.
The big realization, though, was that Mine are SO much smaller than Theirs. And those monsters WILL haunt them. At 2:00 in the morning. For the rest of their lives.
While I will simply shoo mine away. And go back to sleep.
Wednesday, September 26, 2018
Dear Mr. Trump,
It took three glasses of wine, but I managed to listen to your entire disjointed, rambling, babble-packed press conference (and I use that term loosely) this afternoon. Without entering a convent. But just barely.
Dude, what was that?
- A skillful and nefarious manipulation of language, power, and the media designed to deflect attention from your administration's disastrous occupation of the White House?
- An appalling and calculated outpouring of lies, half-truths, veiled threats, and blame composing a series of desperate defenses against the indefensible?
- An hour-and-a-half-long infomercial on dementia?
You got one thing right, though.
Women are SO angry.
Wednesday, September 19, 2018
Monday, September 17, 2018
Sunday, September 16, 2018
Let's talk about money.
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.
And we sure didn't get much bang for the buck.
Friday, September 14, 2018
Dear Senator Graham,
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.
Except for the rest of the planet.
(You wrote that op-ed, didn't you?)
Thursday, September 13, 2018
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?
Sunday, September 9, 2018
Kamala Harris/Beto O'Rourke.
You heard it here first. And I was RIGHT about Biden/Duckworth being the winning ticket for 2016. Y'all didn't listen, and look what happened. So pay attention.
Thursday, September 6, 2018
Wednesday, September 5, 2018
Dear Mr./Ms. Part of the Resistance,
To begin, let me thank you for your service. If it weren't for your prowess and expertise, bravery and dedication, genius and sterling morality...
...we might have gotten rid of this asshole by now.
Since you don't have the courage (like so many of your colleagues) to identify yourself, and sound the alarm loud and clear, please keep in mind that the fate of the world is depending on you.
I hope your abilities are as great as your sense of self-importance.
Dear Mr. Trump,
Bob Woodward's book has barely reared its long-awaited head, and I think we already have a consensus: He's not telling us anything we don't already know. "We" being everybody on Earth who isn't flat-lining.
The book is, apparently, a confirmation. Not a revelation. Certainly not a fabrication. Calling the book a fabrication only exacerbates your own Godzilla-like credibility issues, if that's even possible. For starters, the man has tapes. Lots of them. He also has receipts (look it up, on Google), like 2 Pulitzer Prizes, 5 years in the Navy, 12 best sellers.
And one presidential notch already on his belt.
Furthermore, I appeal to whatever sense of self-preservation you may possess to think twice about calling for tougher libel laws. First of all, it's too late; and secondly, you'll only be opening yourself up to a hundred million lawsuits (Ted Cruz might have one. Certainly Mrs. Cruz does.) If you think Woodward's book is libel, my advice is to stop paying so much attention to professional barnacles like Tucker Carlson and Sean Hannity, and start paying more attention to your Google search results.
Grim as all this might seem, however, it's not your biggest worry. Don't look now, but your Vice President thinks that God is "calling him" to be "president-in-waiting".
Personally I think God has the wrong number, but what does that even mean? It means that your biggest worry is, perhaps, how your Vice President thinks God is going to help him out on this.
Consider: Either Pence thinks he's going to step into your office when God gives you a heart attack, or Mueller gives you an indictment. Or he thinks he's going to take it in 2020. (Because you're not there for some reason. Heart attack? Indictment?) Or he thinks he's going to run in 2024. And win. Unlikely in my opinion, despite the power of God, unless he seriously lightens up on the Juvederm.
So that leaves the first two options. There might be other possibilities here, of which I'm not nefarious enough to conceive.
But I'm sure Mike and God are working on it.
Watch your back,