Let Me Finish

Dear ex-Governor Christie,

I was checking out the news yesterday, wondering what new species of slime Robert Mueller had lately uncovered in his beau geste, and - lo! and behold! 

There you were.

On the SAME DAY that NumbNuts Giuliani dropped the hint that there MIGHT have been some "collusion" with foreign governments conducted by the Trump campaign (but not Trump, never Trump, oh no),  I was treated by excerpts from your new book (for lack of a better word), depicting the wailing and gnashing of teeth over your "friend Donald" (the never-colluding Mr. Trump) being used and led astray by a nefarious gaggle of - what were your subtle sobriquets? - 

"...amateurs, weaklings, grifters, convicted and unconvicted felons..." in the White House.

Shocking.  What's an illegitimately-elected pseudo-President to do?

If only you were there to help him realize his glorious vision of a newly-great America.  One that would give new meaning to the phrase - let me finish - "Soviet Union".

Am I reading that right?

Antipathically yours,

Underemployed

Dear Kayla Moore

Dear Mrs. Moore,

I hear you think Trump owes you and Roy-boy "...a thank you.  Have you noticed you are not hearing too much about Russia?"

Well, no, I haven't noticed that.  As fascinating as you are, you haven't quite occupied all the real estate in my brain yet.  The "Women for Moore" rally today was a bold attempt, though.  I read that literally dozens of women showed up.  Besides your sisters, cousins, neighbors, bible study class, and manicurist, of course.  

But as far as the Russia investigation goes, the latest developments are pretty riveting, especially with some testimony from Rob Goldstone (Russian colluder and Chris Christie clone extraordinaire, currently in an undisclosed location in Bangkok) on the horizon. 

And far from thanking you and the love-of-your-life, I'm going to venture a guess that His Orangeness would pretty much like to forget that the two of you exist.

If only,

Underemployed

P.S.  Don't wear sleeveless dresses.

Dear Sean Spicer and Reince Priebus

Dear Sean and Reince,

Remember the game "Life" from your childhood?  Not the 1980's revamp that had squares that told you to "Recycle!", but the old, dark version that had blue pegs for boys, pink pegs for girls, and...

...Revenge.

Dudes, this is your moment.

If it were served up on a silver platter, if a leprechaun had left it at the end of a rainbow, if Santa Claus had dropped it down your chimney with a big red bow, you could not have been gifted a more golden opportunity.

Though you left Mr. Trump's employ still kissing his hem, and you've had some time to calm down, remember the Sicilians (who know) say that revenge is a dish best served cold.

Ask Scaramucci.  Who, I'm sure, is chomping at the bit.  Or Chris Christie, who's thinking that a job with CNN might be just the thing.  Both Sicilians.

As am I.  And I'm waiting.

This week, Sean and Reince, you are to report to the principal's office.  Where you get to rat on the biggest bully in the school.  This is the chance of a lifetime.

Make me proud,

Underemployed

Dear Governor Christie

Dear Governor Christie,

Today I read the following quote, attributed to you, in reference to Mike Flynn:

"If I were president-elect of the United States, I wouldn't let General Flynn in the White House, let alone give him a job."

Tough talk from a jet-puffed marshmallow.  So answer me this, Big Boy.  If that's true, then how come you had no problem legitimizing and enabling the goofball who did?

Just asking, because I'm not sure you realize how annoying you are,

Underemployed

Dear President Kushner

Dear President Kushner,

How's Dad?

Not so good, huh?

I'm willing to bet that you came back from your ski trip (powder?  Hope there was powder!) to find your President-in-law alternating between towering tantrum and catatonia.  "Uh-oh," I'm sure you said to yourself.  "Something must be done here.  Good thing the President has such a bright son-in-law who's more than willing to step up to the plate as Leader of the Free World."  And - voila! - the White House Office of American Innovation (WHOAi) was born.

So easy.  Why haven't any of those stupid old codgers in Washington thought of this before?  I'm looking forward to your inspiring leadership.  And Ivanka's, because I - for one - have pretty much figured out what the future looks like:  discount mid-price designer.  

So, what exactly is this new office?  According to my research, it is:

1. A "SWAT team of strategic consultants"; and
2. An "incubator of sleek transformation".

Sounds like fun!  I hear that you're "proud" of the fact that this group of wunderkind has "little or no experience" in anything like government.  Hey, fuck the last 241 years!

And here's the first thing on your schedule: a "reimagining" of the Veteran's Administration.  Starting with that pesky opioid addiction epidemic.  Since you have Jeff Sessions looking over your shoulder, you probably won't do anything as innovative or strategic or sleek as just letting the poor bastards have some weed.  OMG, no!  You're going create an official "drug commission", headed by none other than that living embodiment of innovation, strategy, and sleek:  Chris Christie!  Governor Meatloaf.  You guys are old friends, right?

I'm feeling more optimistic already.  Or something like that.

For the record, we didn't vote for you either.  Apparently, it's the new normal.

Longanimously yours,

Underemployed

The Real Issue

The minute I saw the Republican candidates all lined up on the stage, chomping at the bit to get debating, I knew who the nominee would eventually be.

 

And how did I know this? 

 

Hair.  It was all about the hair.

 

Needless to say, my vision of next November's election began with noticing that Donald Trump's hair looked a little weirder than usual.  Donald Trump's hair has always befuddled and, dare I say it? disturbed me.  It has befuddled me because it's not like he's poor, or clueless, or doesn't care.  He's a gazillionaire and goes to great lengths to get his hair to look that way, which can only be described as "surreal".  And I have been disturbed, because it creates an eerie connection with Bill Gates that can't possibly be coincidental.

 

Jeb, I promise you, Woodrow Wilson would never have been elected president if TV had been around back then.  Along the same lines, Mr. Huckabee, your likeness to Hubert Humphrey is doing you no favors.

 

Rand.  Dude.  If that's a perm, stop it.  If it isn't a perm, cut it.

 

Chris, are you trying to look like "Big Boy"?  I mean, is it necessary to have the hair, too?  You haven't noticed?  Don't get me wrong, darling.  Personally, I find the resemblance rather endearing on account of the nostalgia I always feel when I see you.  Because I knew, as a small child, that we were near Grandma's house as soon as I saw that jolly guy smiling down at me from the top of his restaurant.

 

Scott Walker?  A walking ad for Hairclub for Men.  To be fair, some of the hair on the back of his head may have defected and moved to Megyn Kelly's eyelids.

 

Ben, your hair is okay.  But you're going to need more than okay to distract people from the growing suspicion that you hear voices.

 

(Where did this Kasich guy come from?  Did I spell that right?)

 

So who's going to be America's Dream Date?

 

Marco Rubio, of course.  With Ted Cruz (the thinking man's Donald Trump) right behind him. 

 

It's so obvious.