Some presidents are more worthy of recognition than others.
When I was a kid we thought the Holy Trinity of American politics comprised George Washington, Abraham Lincoln and John F. Kennedy.
We celebrated Washington’s birthday on Feb. 22, because he was George Fuckin’ Washington, is why. Father of Our Country. Wooden teeth, cannot tell a lie, threw a silver dollar across the Potomac. Try that with today’s bogus fiat currency and see how far it flies.
Lincoln was born in a log cabin he built himself, freed the slaves, and wrote the best speech ever.
And Kennedy boinked Marilyn Monroe. He slipped it to that commie bastard Nikita Khrushchev, too, but only metaphorically speaking. Still, well done indeed.
But it was Washington’s birthday we celebrated, for the aforementioned reason (he was GFW, the OG, our national daddy-o). And I’m still OK with that, debunking of childhood mythologies notwithstanding.
However, I object to the blanket veneration issued to all subsequent holders of the office since the Uniform Holiday Act took effect in 1971, not least because it followed an executive order from the criminal Richard M. Nixon, who just three years later would run like a rat to San Clemency, pardoned by his successor, the execrable Gerald R. Ford.
Here’s the thing: The presidency is a job, and hiring does not confer beatification. We’ve signed up some real lulus for the gig, bozos best consigned to the Dumpster of History, including the bloated scumbag presently squatting in the Oval Office like an orange poison toad.
We’re supposed to stand this guy up alongside Washington? A Father of Douchebags with a wooden head who lies through plastic teeth and couldn’t throw a French fry across a Mickey D’s? And take a day off in his honor?
I think we should all have to work an extra day, and for free, too, for hiring the sonofabitch in the first place.
