To the one thirteenth of all Americans who watched the latest GOP debate, congratulations on surviving the political equivalent of the 24 hours of Le Mans. You just climbed Campaign Everest. Strapped to a pair of debates. Or to be more precise; a pair of mind-numbing, marathon, four and a half hour, endurance-test, butt-fall-asleep debates.
Time to yodel a big old welcome back to the same old grind from our too brief summer respite. And yes, that does include the umpteen-gazillion presidential candidates returning from their home districts with batteries and bank accounts recharged. With an emphasis on the moolah.
It’s easy to tell the end of summer the year before a presidential election is nigh, because that bothersome quadrennial buzzing noise is back. And no, we’re not talking about candidates riding the Tilt-A-Whirl at the Iowa State Fair after eating pork on a stick.
It’s a race to the outside. Avoid the middle like the plague. The goal is to not be one with the pack.
Yeah, I hear what you’re saying. “For all you political comics, Donald Trump must be a dream come true. Manna from heaven. Slam-dunking from a step-ladder. Swimming in a sea of beer.”
Get to high ground everybody. Our nation is in danger of being inundated by a candidate tsunami of 17 Republicans. The Sweet Sixteen and Never Been Kissed Plus One. Seventeen Shades of Grey. If they used a designated pitcher they could split up into two teams and play softball against each other. No hardball allowed.
I’ve got to congratulate Donald Trump for how fast he’s become more annoying to the Republican Party than a mouse in an air conditioning unit. He’s like that popcorn husk that gets stuck in the back of your molars and you can’t pry it out with a cord of toothpicks. He’s almost as grating as the Kars for Kids commercial.
For all those bemoaning the lack of noise in the Republican presidential sweepstakes, it’s time to get down on our knees and give thanks to Donald Trump because whatever that man touches turns to loud. He’s the gift that keeps on blaring. Has all the delicate innuendo of concrete curtain rods. Not just a loose cannon, more like a loose aircraft carrier.
Every year, it’s with a gleeful relief we embrace Independence Day, which marks the beginning of dead solid summer. The Fourth of July is a red, white and blue arrow to the bulls-eye of patriotism when we celebrate the anniversary of the birth of our country by packing together in crowds, drinking a lot of beer and blowing stuff up real good.
He gets under their skin like termites in a boathouse. Drives them crazier than Hillary Clinton and Yoko Ono dancing on a gay pride parade float. He’s the itch you can’t scratch. The thorn in the palm of their paw. The 3-inch scratch on their favorite Ted Nugent album. I’m talking about that hot new Catholic sensation, Pope Frankie.
Rich people with too much time and money on their hands often seem to get bored with the hum and drum of their gold-filigreed existences. In response they turn to egalitarian enterprises, such as feudal kings commissioning alchemists to turn base metals into gold, because a lot of stuff back then needed to be filigreed.
Will Durst finds himself in the lineup with a Q&A on the USA Freedom Act.
Population scientists describe the Baby Boom generation as anybody born between the years 1946 and 1964. Which means the youngest of the Baby Boomers turned 50 last year, and the oldest will turn 70 next year, which is just so wrong. We Boomers are the architects of the youth culture. We invented young people for crum’s sakes. We’re the Pepsi Generation… that had a minor fling with Coke.
