We’re all bozos on this bus. Some of us more than others.
Well, it seems the House is fixin’ to vote on a bill that they’ve not seen, and that the CBO has not scored, and since it only affects, oh, about a sixth of the economy, well, nothing to see here, move along, move along.
There is precedent, after all.
I’m thinking that a sizable portion of the electorate never looked at Ronald McDonald McTrump before they voted for him.
Unless Zombie Hunter S. Thompson resurrects the National Affairs Desk atop a taco truck outside the University of Nevada-Las Vegas I will not be watching tonight’s final “debate.”
I suppose there might be some entertainment value in watching the increasingly deranged Ronald McDonald McTrump shout in answer to every question, “You’re fired! You’re fired!YOU’RE FIRED!!!” Or maybe lunge across the desk and sink his fangs into The Hilldebeast’s throat as she stabs him in the venom sac with a ceremonial dagger smuggled to her by the Illuminati.
But goddamn, I’ve had enough of this for one lifetime, in this realm or any other. It’s like watching Maude trade zingers with Yog-Sothoth on the Necronomicon Network.
As soon as early voting commences here in the Land of Enchantment, I will bicycle over to the polls and vote against Insane Clown Pussy. This may be pointless — Real Clear Politics has HRC solidly out front in New Mexico, and the NYT’s Upshot has her with a 92 percent chance of victory nationwide — but insulting him on Twitter seems to have had little effect. Thus I leave nothing to chance.
And if the GOP candidate should transmogrify into a Great Old One and devour the shrieking studio audience tonight, well, that’s showbiz. Doesn’t mean I have to watch.
If only it were true that whatever happens in Vegas stays there.
Though you might hear laughin’, spinnin’, swingin’ madly across the sun, it’s not aimed at anyone, it’s just escapin’ on the run.
I probably should have been conspiring with my fellow journalists about how best to speed the ongoing decline and fall of Ronald McDonald McTrump, but I felt like riding a bike, so I did that instead.
Anyway, it doesn’t look to me as though this virulent orange ball of flatulence needs my help to sink slowly in the west, into a sewage lagoon of its own making.
When I got back home I cranked up iTunes and worked my way through my admittedly limited Bob Dylan collection (“Blonde On Blonde,” “Blood On the Tracks,” “Bringing It All Back Home,” and “Highway 61 Revisited”).
I’m not sure ol’ Bob merits the Nobel Prize for Literature, but right offhand I can’t think of anyone else who has it coming, either. I know that I like him, and so I’m happy for him, and shall defer in matters literary to Thomas McGuane, whose opinion on Dylan (from “Nothing But Blue Skies”) I have poached before:
No one compares with this guy, thought Frank. I feel sorry for the young people of today with their stupid fucking tuneless horseshit; that may be a generational judgment but I seriously doubt it.
Goddamnit, I guess we’re gonna have to watch tonight’s “town hall debate” between The Hilldebeast and whichever Ronald McDonald McTrump decides to show up, if any.
I can’t say I’m happy about it. Herself and I had agreed before the first matchup had even ended that we would watch no others.
But when I see Insane Clown Pussy furiously digging himself ever deeper into a hole, my natural inclination is to stand on the lip and watch. Maybe pee a little. OK, a lot. Call it “trickle-down journalism.”
Charlie Pierce says this big orange chicken has been a long time coming to roost, and I believe him, having once worked in a newsroom full of young, apparently intelligent people who were all hellbent on voting for St. Ronnie of Hollywood.
Will he lay a golden egg on stage, or will the end product be something entirely different, yet all too familiar? Don’t touch that dial.
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