Schadenfreude
Feel free to join in the chorus from Beethoven's Ninth: "Schadenfreude goetterfunken, Tochter aus Elysium..."
I am a bad person. I revel in the misfortune of those who deserve it. Not that I get many chances, but I take what I can get.
Like Ed Sorel, until I think of someone I'd like to kill -- WITH ART, OF COURSE -- I can't get out of bed. For some reason, it's always Trump. I put on CNN but it never says TRUMP DEAD, with that melancholy Muzak they use for plane crashes. I know Pence is a fanatic, I know the odds Trump would fall on him and squash him are astronomically small, but I still long for a time when I won't have to see that bloated orange face except in accounts of criminal investigations from the past.
It was a typically awful Thursday. The murder of Trayvon Martin was re-enacted on a Georgia street in daylight and captured on phone video, and it took two months for the father-and-son lynch mob to be arrested, not yet indicted. (You can get a massage or a pedicure, but the courts are closed until June.) Nearly 77,000 Americans are dead, and the sickest have to work butchering our pork chops. The "Justice" Department has changed its mind about Michael Flynn, so apparently a guilty plea is no longer the equivalent of a conviction. (Some good news for Putin, who has moved Russia into the coronavirus Top Five.) The Supreme Court heard arguments on the phone, but what transfixed everyone was the sound of a flushing toilet. A trivial country gets the court it deserves. There is a new syndrome appearing in children which may be connected to this evil virus, similar to Kawasaki Shock Syndrome. Trump wants his risible WALL painted black, so it will be hot and invisible like his fighter planes. A fifth of the country is out of work, but why not toss half a billion dollars at this absurdity? And so on.
I was about to reach for the Clorox when this point of light appeared: One of the stewards who waits on Master and hands him his plate has tested positive for coronavirus. Well Jimmy crack corn, I felt downright happy. Now The Leader was a world-class germ paranoiac before the pandemic, he once yelled at Mick Mulvaney for coughing within earshot, he gets tested every half hour (which is why nobody else can get a test kit), and he's said to be near apoplectic with rage. Isn't that great? If the virus doesn't get him, maybe a stroke will! At the very least, maybe he'll keep his ugly ass in the royal bedchamber for a couple of weeks, covered in Purell and tweeting until his phone bursts into flames. Farts and prayers, sir.
I hope the steward is all right.
I am a bad person. I revel in the misfortune of those who deserve it. Not that I get many chances, but I take what I can get.
Like Ed Sorel, until I think of someone I'd like to kill -- WITH ART, OF COURSE -- I can't get out of bed. For some reason, it's always Trump. I put on CNN but it never says TRUMP DEAD, with that melancholy Muzak they use for plane crashes. I know Pence is a fanatic, I know the odds Trump would fall on him and squash him are astronomically small, but I still long for a time when I won't have to see that bloated orange face except in accounts of criminal investigations from the past.
It was a typically awful Thursday. The murder of Trayvon Martin was re-enacted on a Georgia street in daylight and captured on phone video, and it took two months for the father-and-son lynch mob to be arrested, not yet indicted. (You can get a massage or a pedicure, but the courts are closed until June.) Nearly 77,000 Americans are dead, and the sickest have to work butchering our pork chops. The "Justice" Department has changed its mind about Michael Flynn, so apparently a guilty plea is no longer the equivalent of a conviction. (Some good news for Putin, who has moved Russia into the coronavirus Top Five.) The Supreme Court heard arguments on the phone, but what transfixed everyone was the sound of a flushing toilet. A trivial country gets the court it deserves. There is a new syndrome appearing in children which may be connected to this evil virus, similar to Kawasaki Shock Syndrome. Trump wants his risible WALL painted black, so it will be hot and invisible like his fighter planes. A fifth of the country is out of work, but why not toss half a billion dollars at this absurdity? And so on.
I was about to reach for the Clorox when this point of light appeared: One of the stewards who waits on Master and hands him his plate has tested positive for coronavirus. Well Jimmy crack corn, I felt downright happy. Now The Leader was a world-class germ paranoiac before the pandemic, he once yelled at Mick Mulvaney for coughing within earshot, he gets tested every half hour (which is why nobody else can get a test kit), and he's said to be near apoplectic with rage. Isn't that great? If the virus doesn't get him, maybe a stroke will! At the very least, maybe he'll keep his ugly ass in the royal bedchamber for a couple of weeks, covered in Purell and tweeting until his phone bursts into flames. Farts and prayers, sir.
I hope the steward is all right.
posted by Buttermilk Sky at 9:03 PM
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