There Is News Beyond Tr**p

In the big wide world of ours, there are tons of things going on that don’t include President What’s-His-Name.  In the great mediagasm journalists are having with the guy, here are a few things you might have missed.

news-world

In Mexico, the American DEA found a catapult that drug dealers were using to fling narcotics across the border — I assume marijuana.  And this wasn’t just your average medieval rock-tosser, either — the thing was huge.  There’s an “A” for ingenuity in there somewhere, but honestly, why didn’t anybody notice?  I can pick out where my car is parked with Google Earth, and one would think government satellite surveillance was a little bit more sophisticated than that.  But I guess it’s the same old story: when you don’t need a catapult, they seem to be everywhere, but the day you’re looking for one, they’re nowhere to be found.

Apparently, China has discovered that they have a gigantic gender imbalance.  They estimate that, by the end of the decade, there will be 30 million more men in China than women.  To put things into perspective, that’s more single men than the entire population of Austria, Switzerland and Sweden — combined.  The Chinese call them “leftovers,” and there are a number of academic studies trying to figure out how and why this happened.  But honestly, does it matter?  (Toothpaste out of the tube, etc. etc.)  Unfortunately, nobody is addressing the elephant in the room– which is what do you do with 30 million horny men, bubbling over with enough testosterone to melt the polar ice caps?  After all, baseball and cold showers can only do so much!

Oddly enough, the same day China admitted their gender situation, Playboy decided to bring boobs back to its pages.  Coincidence? Yeah, probably!  Pen and paper magazines continue their trudge to the grave, and a little nudity isn’t going to stop that for a nanosecond.  But there’s no law against full frontal irrelevance, I guess.

And finally, my favourite:

Grace Mugabe, wife of 92 year old President Robert Mugabe, who’s been running and ruining the beautiful country of Zimbabwe since 1980, was in the news.  (Honestly, I didn’t know he was married to anything but evil.)  Anyway, she maintains that her husband is so popular in Zimbabwe that, if he died, he could run for president as a corpse and still win the election.  Strange as this sounds, it actually happened — in Missouri, in 2000.  Incumbent Republican Senator John Ashcroft was beaten by Democrat Mel Carnahan who died in a plane crash two weeks before the election.  What a major kick in the self esteem!  When your opponent is dead, and he’s the one who gets elected — well — that pretty much seals the deal that the people of Missouri don’t want you around, John.  All’s well that ends well, though, because in 2001, President George W. Bush appointed Ashcroft Attorney General.  And we all lived happily ever after.

I’m Tired Of Trump

donald-trumpOkay, I’m officially tired of Donald Trump.  I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with the guy.  It’s been three solid months.  Even Jack the Ripper got a day off, for God’s sake!
I don’t care how bad he is.
I don’t care how good he is.
I don’t care what he looks like, where he goes or who comes to see him.
I don’t care that Saturday Night Live hasn’t been this relevant since Chevy Chase discovered Gerald Ford was clumsy.
I don’t care that Alec Baldwin doesn’t like Trump.
I don’t care that Stephen Baldwin does.
And I don’t give a rat’s ass for Rosie O’Donnell’s opinion.  (That woman’s just mean.)
Actually, I’m sick and tired of celebrity millionaires telling me how I’m supposed to care and what I’m supposed to care about.  I’ve got a  new rule: I’m not taking any advice from people who don’t buy their own toilet paper.  (And BTW, I’ve seen some of those movies they’re calling art.  They ain’t!)
I’m tired of Trumpeters, for and against, cluttering up my Twitter feed.
I’m tired of turning on the TV and seeing nothing but Trump.
I’m tired of people plastering Trump all over Facebook.  The election’s over; it’s time to get back to sick kids and kittens.

Personally, despite what the media says, I don’t think Donald Trump is smart enough to be the Antichrist, but, if he is — well — why doesn’t he get on with it?
And I definitely don’t think he’s the best president since Teddy Roosevelt.  So far, pretty much everything he’s touched has gone sideways.
So maybe — just maybe — he’s somewhere in the middle.

But that’s the problem.

It’s impossible to have a reasonable political discussion about the relative merits or demerits of a Trump presidency because every dumbass from Maine to Malibu is shouting an opinion — and most of it is just noise.

So until we quit being immature jerks, running around calling each other names, I’m out.  And, as of right now, if all the Trump supporters and all the Trump detractors were gathered naked in Antarctic, I wouldn’t give any one of them the steam off my pee to keep warm.

There’s more to this world than Donald Trump, folks!

A Few Words About Swearing

swearingIt’s going to snow — again.  When I heard that, I had a few choice words to say about a certain rodent (Groundhog Day was Wednesday) Mother Nature and the poor Weather Girl who looks as if she was harnessed into her clothes (but that’s a different blog.)  I felt better — like — right now, and went about my business.  You see, that’s what swearing does — it makes us feel better.  Unfortunately, like most things the millennials have gotten their mitts on, in the 21st century, swearing is being ruined.

I’m old enough to remember when swearing was an art form, a verbal quest to find words that expressed the primitive soul that lurks inside all of us.  In those days, people generally didn’t swear in polite society.  Swearing was reserved for exasperation, frustration, anger, the end of the argument  – all the most primitive emotions.  People swore when the pudding boiled over, or the neighbour wouldn’t listen to reason, or the cat crapped on the carpet.  Swearing was reserved for those special times when ordinary words just didn’t cover it.  It released the tension, so we didn’t toss the pudding across the kitchen, punch the neighbour or kill the cat.  These words were forbidden, and so, with one broken taboo, we were badasses.  We stood toe-to-toe with life’s evil fortunes and refused to be bullied.  Then it was over.  We metaphorically washed our mouth out with soap and carried on.

Unfortunately, these days swearing is used as punctuation.  In the torrent of conversation, it’s splashed around like ketchup on a redneck’s breakfast.  It literally doesn’t mean anything anymore.  It’s lost its punch.  When you call your best friend a bad bitch on a daily basis, what do you call her when she actually is one?  And that’s why the millennials spend every waking hour offended.  They have no way to release the emotional pressure.  When I trip on the stairs and bang my shins, I release a torrent of invectives on everyone from the person who chose to live on the second floor (me) to the carpenter who built the offending structure.  Millennials can’t do that.  When life comes along and pees in their porridge, they just have to take it.  And it serves them right, the $%()#! bastards!