Thursday, January 19, 2017

Disconnected thoughts

You know you are in big trouble when the least disturbing thing about the new president is that he has a good friend named Joey No-Socks.

At least ninety senior Obama officials have agreed to stay in their jobs because the moron-elect was too busy feuding with Meryl Streep and CNN to hire replacements.  These people are true patriots.  I would have told him to go trump himself.

It's fun to laugh at the Russian pee-party stories, but we need to remember that this is only the distraction, the salacious detail for the entertainment of the perpetually adolescent, like Bill Clinton's cigar.  It's not a crime to enjoy getting pissed on.  Whatever Putin has on Trump is much more serious, penitentiary stuff.  It would even shock the Stormtrumpers who wouldn't care if he shot someone in the middle of Fifth Avenue (his own words).  But I have never missed Bill Hicks so much.   

First Rick Perry wanted to abolish the Department of Energy.  Then he decided that he wanted to be Secretary of Energy.  Then he found out the job doesn't entail peddling Texas oil and gas to the world but requires him to supervise America's nuclear arsenal.  Now his head hurts.

If Trump is following the Tom Price hearings, he may have his first inkling that insider trading is a crime.  Trump believes that no laws apply to him -- immigration laws, tax laws, labor laws, bribery laws, the Cuban embargo, even the laws of science.  Even the law which says that if you consume more calories than you burn, you'll get fat.  When Donzo looks in a mirror he doesn't see a grotesque old man with dyed hair, weird orange skin and more chins than Mount Rushmore.  He sees a young Brad Pitt.  Even Brad Pitt doesn't see that anymore.

No more Corporation for Public Broadcasting?  Who will bring us stately British costume dramas and documentaries about Egyptian mummies?  Sad!

President Obama ended his final news conference by telling the press, "Good luck."  It looks as if they'll need it.  There is talk of rousting them out of the James Brady Room in the White House because --get this -- the room isn't big enough.  (Il Douche doesn't like to perform before crowds of fewer than five thousand, preferably chanting his name.)  If this encourages reporters to actually report, investigate, pursue, or just pore over public documents as I.F. Stone did, it could be the best thing that has happened to them in a long while.  Besides, it can't be fun to work in a place named for a press secretary who was shot in the head.

I wish I'd said it:  SPRINGTIME FOR TWITLER.  Good night, and good grief.



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