America's Boundaries

Donald Trump stands ready to protect America’s boundaries, especially those of American women. His plan will cost the taxpayer nothing. Simply put, he proposes that each 

American woman build a wall around herself and make Mexico pay for it. Mexicans, in his view, are murderers and rapists and, in the worst cases, gropers who invade women’s private space. 

A Locker Room Conversation with Donald Trump

                  A Locker Room Conversation with Donald Trump

“Wow. Who cut the cheese?” Billy asked.

“He who smelt it, dealt it,” Trump quipped.

“Hah ha ha ha ha ha ha ha hah,” Billy agreed. “Have you noticed something?  We must be fifty years older than the other kids in here. We’re too old for this.”

“I know you are, but what am I?” Trump snapped. Then he snorted into his hot microphone and turned orange. “You’re not the boss of me!”

“Good one!”

“And no matter how you shake and dance, the last few drops go down your pants.”

Trump Bleeds Out

My father, a machinist who was a New Deal Democrat until my mother died (he then became a racist), used to say that if the Republicans nominated the pimple on his ass for President, that pimple would get 35% of the vote. In other words, 35% was rock bottom, the absolute minimum percentage a major candidate (Democrat or Republican) could get.

Dumb Donald Trump is now lurching along at pimple strength, at 35%. He should have bled out, but somehow he continues to bleed. I don’t know how he can still bleed —how much blood does it take to animate more than six feet of staggering blubber? Why is Trump constantly snuffling and sniffing on national television?  When is the last time he blew his nose or ate a fresh vegetable?  I give him three months to live. He’s bleeding out and we watch. 

Enough Debates

According to the Press Corporate Democrat, “both Sonoma County Democrats and Republicans said GOP presidential candidate Donald Trump improved his debate performance Sunday 
night. . . ." In fact, Trump blundered onto the stage as balmy as a beer-soaked sociopath. He announced a plan to jail his opponent, dismissed his sex crimes as “locker room talk” and sniffed and snorted throughout like a coke head recently out of supplies. Clinton carefully did not knock the babbling windbag out—what if the Republicans replaced him with someone a little less looney? She wants to keep blubberguts up on his painful feet so she can punish him more. There is no stooge on earth better to run against. Trump’s already cost the Republicans control of the Senate. Can the House be far behind? (This morning Paul Ryan turned the Republican House members loose to run with or without Trump, to do anything they needed to save themselves.)

But someone should call off the third debate, the third debasing. Trump is too despicable for public consumption. Let’s stop now and just vote.

Forgiveness and Redemption

People speaking for Donald Trump and other perverts are asking us today to forgive Trump for his sexual crimes against young women. He has apologized and, they say, has earned Christian redemption. That is good doctrine, and they can point to past examples. As my Cousin Dan put it, look at how quick Republicans were to forgive Hillary Clinton when she was not caught murdering Vince Foster.

If the Republicans can forgive Hillary for being a woman who wears trousers and forgive President Obama for defeating two white men for the Presidency, surely the rest of us can forgive Dumb Donald for being drawn to beauty like a magnet and then short-fingering the objects he sees on display in front of him.

Trump's Mouth

Today remarks by Trump surfaced, in which he revealed that as a “star” he felt free to grab females by their private parts and so on. Many Republicans have expressed disapproval of his behavior and  comments, but what stood out for me was the need these Republicans felt to explain why they were suddenly defending women, of all people.

If you are a Republican male and you want to denounce Trump’s sex crimes, you must first say, “As the father of five daughters” or “as a husband who loves his wife” or “as the son of a woman.” These exculpatory self-descriptions make legitimate your momentary lapse from the Republican doctrine of male superiority.  Yes, of course, males are generally superior, but many can agree that even a Republican leader like Donald Trump has no right to grab your mother by the pussy.   

MadBum

Bumgarner, Bumgarner, Bumgarner--that was the actor James Garner's real name. If he hadn't changed it, think how famous he'd be.

Madison Bumgarner is a farm boy and baseball player. He's six-five, 250 pounds, wears muddy jeans. At 27 he is already a legend. Legends are players like Stan Musial and Sandy Koufax. And now there's one among us. 

As things stand MadBum of the SF Giants is the greatest post-season pitcher in the  history of baseball. He's pitched in three World Series, he's won every time, he's got the lowest World Series ERA ever, and last night he threw a nine inning shutout in an elimination game that put the Giants back in the hunt. 

Last night we saw him smile for the first time, a brief smile at his coach. MadBum is deadly serious. He pitches his game. Then he relieves himself on the mound and pitches the ninth. He doesn't celebrate. He walks off the field. If he thinks a batter is disrespectful--defined as looking at him too long--watch out.

Two years ago, MadBum (a combination of Paul Bunyan and Babe the Blue Ox) had won his two starts in that year's World Series, and there was talk of him being brought back as a relief pitcher in the seventh game.  (That did happen, and he threw five scoreless innings.) A reporter asked Bumgarner how many pitches he thought he could throw in the deciding game, given how many innings he had already completed. 

"Two hundred," Bumgarner replied.

Trump Enters Miss Universe!

Suddenly aware that he’s losing, Donald Trump has announced he will run to become the first woman President of the United States. This looks like a powerful strategy.  A person who usually thinks of others first, Trump has finally given herself the same presents she gave her wives: a matching set of plastic boobs, a shorter skirt, a diet plan and our planet's entry form for the Miss Universe contest.   (The Earth has a history of doing remarkably well in the Miss Universe pageant. Trump can almost be guaranteed a top five finish.)   

Borderline Personality

Borderline personality disorders are as common as crows at Canadian customs. Last week I was crossing into Canada from Washington and, as usual, faced questions of incomprehensible value. 

Customs: Why are you visiting Canada?

Me: To visit friends. The husband is someone I’ve known for 65 years.

Customs: Where did you meet this friend?

(They always ask me that. The question seems to be automatic.  Must be in the handbook.)

Me: Well, we grew up on a peninsula near Los Angeles where many people had horses. He was fourteen at the time, riding a Shetland pony. That pony was mean. You had to watch him. He might bite you.

Customs: Do you have any firearms in your van?

Me: No. It’s illegal to take firearms into Canada.

Customs: Has this van ever had firearms in it?

Me: Ever? Well, the van is fifteen years old. I’m sure it’s had firearms in it at some point. It doesn’t have any now—I’m eighty-one and a retired college professor driving to Vancouver Island to visit friends. I wouldn’t attempt to bring firearms across the border.

Shortly I found myself in a gigantic room with about 100 empty chairs. A different customs fellow asked me to empty my pockets on a counter. I was wearing a traveler’s vest with about 15 pockets, pants with five pockets and a shirt with two pockets. I began to empty the pockets. He took my passport, my keys and my Swiss Army Knife. He asked me to pull up my pants so he could check my ancient legs for an ankle holster. Finally I was told to take a seat.

The Canadians searched my van for about 30 minutes, leaving the interior a jumble of things they had thrown about. In the end they gave back my keys, passport and Swiss knife. and I was sent on towards Vancouver. The only thing they confiscated was my firewood, and they said I could pick it up on my way back if I wanted it. I said, No, thanks.