Dear Mr. Trump

Dear Mr. Trump,

Do YOU go home at night and say, "What a great life!"?

I don't think so,

Underemployed

Unreal

Dear Mr. Trump,

Sometimes it's hard to know what - or if - you're thinking. 

I'm not sure you understand this, but everything you've ever said or done in the (far too many) years since your first speaking part in The Great American Nightmare belies your persistent (and pathetic) claims to intelligence, civility, education, a high IQ (it only seems high when you can't count up to 100), negotiating skills, and patriotism.

I mean, c'mon: 

1. You're in an ongoing public feud with the pregnant widow of a serviceman who was found killed,
2. After being missing for two days,
3. On your watch?
4. For which you offered little explanation, took little responsibility, and expressed little sympathy.
5. Seriously?  Good job, Commander-in-Chief.  

Then:

1. You trot out a four-star general to fight the mean girls for you.
2. And we are told that it would be "highly inappropriate" to "get into a debate" with a "four-star Marine general".  
3. Even though the Marine general was lying through his teeth, and had gone above-and-beyond whatever call of duty he thought he was answering to defame and insult an innocent-as-charged public official.
4. Whereby the general's credibility tanked.
5. So now you're going to need a new general.  Mattis?  Maybe.  But people are starting to remember Vietnam.  

And:

1. Sarah Huckabee Sanders.
2. Who apparently was absent from Sunday school on the day they taught the Ten Commandments.  (Thank you, Sarah.  It's also "highly inappropriate" to "lie".)
3. As far as I can see, there is nothing beneath this woman.
4. And she wears WAY too much eye makeup.  Why, for the love of God?  Perhaps an attempt to distract from all the snarly stuff going on beneath the nose?  (Not working.)
5. Whatever.  It's creepy.  Liz Taylor reincarnated as a bulldog.

Furthermore:

1. If I had a person hanging around me who called his wife "Mother", and who wouldn't dine with women alone or be in a room with females where alcohol was being served without "Mother" by his side, and who publicly declared (in all seriousness) that it was the "greatest privilege" of his life (take that, Mother!) to serve me, I would get a restraining order.  And a food taster.  Just sayin'.
2. A person who paints himself orange, and wears a tie that goes down to his knees, should not be calling a woman who wears a cowboy hat "wacky". 
3. Never mind that you support a Senate candidate who also wears a cowboy hat, and packs a pistol, and rides a horse, just to go vote.  In Alabama, no less, a place not usually associated with cowboys.
4. It's equally ludicrous to hear you cry, "No leadership in the NFL!"  That you fail to see the irony in this statement is more proof that your dad probably paid big bucks for your IQ test.
5. AND your goofball son is accusing someone (Hillary Clinton) of "arrogance and entitlement" (on Twitter, on her birthday).  That boy really needs a mirror.  And a chin.

While I'm at it:

1. Wacky
2. Crooked
3. Lyin'
4. Nasty
5. Crazy
6. A real nutjob
7. Showboat
8. Grandstander
9. Sound familiar?  This is the way you talk about people.  And you think that the press portrays you as "more uncivil" than you actually are?  Were you raised by wolves?
10. Not coincidentally, the above epithets are apt descriptions of you.

For the record:

1. An Ivy League school will generally give a degree to anyone who gives them enough money.
2. An intelligent person doesn't need to tell people that they're intelligent.
3. Steve Bannon is a mean, stupid drunk.

And I still want to see your tax returns.

Feeling better now,

Underemployed

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. 

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.