First, I need you to know that Donald Trump was right:
But Roy Moore, that li’l ol’ freckle-faced rascal —you know, the Alabama guy with the eight arms, that long overcoat with pockets stuffed full of candy bracelets, and the dog-eared copy of “Lolita” on his bedside table—lost.
That’s the LAST thing America needs: A victory for bad on Crime, Life, Border, Vets, Guns & Military Dems; an ignominious defeat for All-American, good-clean-fun, national-anthem-standing, horned-for-young-girls Republicans.
You, know, and can I just say, seriously. There’s just no predicting how voters can suddenly get all un-American and decent on you. Talk about fickle!
Nonetheless, I really, really need you to know that Donald Trump was right:
Strange indeed, then, that Roy’s numbers, as opposed to anything else of Roy’s, did not “go up mightily” at the siren call of the Great Mouth Breather’s endorsement.
(You do know how to endorse, don’t you, Donald? It’s easy—you just put your lips together and blow.)
But what do you expect? Hard as Roy might work, huffing and puffing and giving the task at hand his best shot—those fickle voters were just too well-stacked. It can happen!
So to make this all perfectly clear:
Trump was unequivocally right, in that uniquely wrong kind of way of being right that’s endeared him to world leaders from the Palace of Westminster to the Dome of the Rock and every point in between.
Are you great again yet, America? ‘Cause I have to be honest: Your continuing attempts at again-greatness are becoming a terrible strain on the nerves.
This just in: Are black women inherently smarter than and superior to white women? Ah DO declare!
Exit polls after the Alabama Senate vote show that nearly two-thirds of white women in Alabama voted for Roy Moore.
Yes, siree! Nearly two-thirds of white women in Alabama voted for Roy Moore!
(At least, we’re pretty sure they were white women. It’s hard to tell who’s under those pointed hoods until you get the secret handshake.)
On the other hand, 98% of black women voted for Jones, who fought the Ku Klux Klan and won, as opposed to only 34% of white women.
Stats for the Presidential election show similar divisions. Black women, regardless of education, voted 95% for Clinton. But only 34% of non-college educated white women voted for her, and an only slightly more encouraging 51% of college-educated white women.
Think of that. Black women, whatever their level of education, voted monolithically for Jones/Clinton; that is, after they updated their ID’s, hired a notary public, then walked with the notary public thirty-four miles to the polling station and cut through the barbed wire fence.
But white women went to college and, at least in Alabama, got only 17% smarter! Their complacent Confederate stupidity, compounded by too many years spent doling out jello salad in their church basements and inhaling bleach fumes as they soaked the bloodstained linens, is apparently as impenetrable as Roy “Huff-‘n-Puff” Moore’s thirteen-year-old nymphet.
Meanwhile, in another part of town, Twitterers
were all a-twit at the Netflix employees who got bored one rainy afternoon and decided to publicly tease three people about their obsessive viewing habits. On Twitter. Just for, you know. Fun.
Use customer data irresponsibly? As if!
Ever since the revelation that three “Likes” on Facebook will predict with high accuracy whether you’re gay or not—for the record, they are: “All About Eve”, “Barbie Collectors” and “Cute Guys in Jockstraps”— I spend a full third of my waking hours telling youngsters about the necessity of using super-secure, ephemeral messaging apps, like Wickr, for example, only to receive, via Facebook, something like, “Whatever, grandad, and could you score us some more of that awesome weed??!!!?”
Similarly, a Greek soldier once said to his colleagues,
“Cassandra says she has a funny feeling about the big horse thingy, though I think it was kind of thoughtful of the Trojans and I do agree it would look smashing in the atrium as a begonia planter!”
Yes, peeps—it’s time for another in my recurring series:
Facebook Life Event #209a:
Slept. In a bed. With covers over me. Vaguely at night.
Last night, around 2 A.M., while “working” (surfing the deep Internet in search of the most time-wasting cat videos I could possibly find), I started falling asleep at various inconvenient moments (at one point finding myself unaccountably naked on Skype) and slamming my face into the computer keyboard.
I’m not sure how many of you understand that this blog does not magically appear on the internet via my voice-activated, machine-learning-capable supercomputer responding to my command of “Hey, Cortana, write my blog, bitch!”, but involves real effort.
As a way of illustrating the concept “real effort”, compare, say, me staying up three nights in a row smoking twelve-dollar packs of cigarettes and risking carpal tunnel syndrome in order to produce sly, humorous material that I pray an average person will even understand, never mind laugh at the appropriate moments; to you, say, starting to make a cup of instant coffee, getting bored halfway through, then returning to your master bedroom and texting Starbucks to see if they’ll Uber you a Grande Caramel Latte made with Lactose-Free Low-Fat.
Now that we’re on the same page about real effort, I can tell you that my falling asleep problem was exacerbated by my complete failure to find a thread of right-wing Amerikanischer nut-jobs frothing at the mouth about transgenders and the dangers they pose to American public washrooms, so that I could engage and eventually end up screaming for the millionth time that Canada’s healthcare system is not “Socialist Satanic Hillary Socialist Obama Communism”.
The fourth time I nodded off, I slithered in a Martha Graham-type slow motion off the chair and landed scalp first on the sharp corner of the surge-resistant power bar by Ikea that only extends three inches from the socket so bored Swedish children won’t trip over it when they’re finger-painting the walls with lingonberry crumble. This was the first time I’d ever hit my head hard enough to understand the term “seeing stars”.
Well, you know— It got me to thinkin’.
So having stanched the flow of blood and suppressed my hysterical screams, I went into my bedroom—which I haven’t had use of since 2014, when I rented it out to a top-secret provincial mental-health project as a cheap alternative to biohazard disposal—lay down on the futon, pulled the duvet up over me and—slept for about five hours.
Slept. In a bed. Futon, I mean. With covers over me. Vaguely at night.
I don’t necessarily recommend it. If you try it yourself, don’t expect too much. You might not say, “That was AWE-SOMMMMME“, for example. My response was sort of, “Well, that was different, eh?”
I didn’t say “eh”, really, I just added that to fulfill the expectations of any American friends who happen to read this. It’s always good to live up to people’s expectations of you. You’ll find that’s a really effective strategy for your life.
About The Pictures (PG)
You may be wondering. The luscious pics have nothing to do with the above life event. I just chose to share them ’cause of how fucking hot they make me look.
Above: Me being hot as fuck as I sit in an expensive chair in an expensive condo on the Île-des-soeurs, Montréal and catch my breath so I can be super fucking hot in the next pic.
Right: Me, in the same expensive condo on the Île-des-soeurs, Montréal, being super fucking hot after my rest (see above).
Some people have suggested to me, from a respectful distance, that being as fucking hot as I am is actually a potential danger to the public and should be illegal.
But I disagree. There’s always room at the party for one more hot-as-fuck guy, and that guy right now just happens to be me.
Since you asked.