I record TV news-entertainment shows. When I watch it, I silently speed through the parts that disgust or bore me. This morning I was speeding through the President's usual appearance, the walk to his motorcade or helicopter (I guess), where he shouts nonsensical guff at reporters, in lieu of a genuine encounter. In this speeding along, Spanky's face seemed to jump from one agonized rictus to another. Has there ever been a more unhappy chump?
As a youngster this fool learned to deny his criminal incompetence by proclaiming each of his mistakes a grand victory. If your father is rich enough, you can surround yourself with toadies; you can live like that, and Spanky did live like that until he entered politics, not to win but to build his brand.
There he goes, lurching across the White House lawn, his bloated guts encased in formal tent-like man suits, his transplanted, boond-dyed back hairs growing backwards on the top of his ugly dome, but they are his hairs, each one, and no one has ever cared about him or will as long as he lives.
(also on Facebook)
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment