“I now understand what it must feel like to be an alcoholic trying not to take that next drink,” an old friend wrote. “I decide every morning not to watch TV for a day and I can't stick to it. I have felt all along that Steve Bannon was going to weasel his way into running this country. It appears he has now made it.”
Don’t worry, I replied. Be happy. “As perverse as it may be, I'm enjoying the hell out of this,” I wrote. “It’s such a joy watching him melt-down and listening to his hirelings read — verbatim, it seems — his temper-tantrum rants.”
Just look at the guy. He’s paunchy. His peroxide mane is falling out. He looks as if he hasn’t slept in a month, and he probably hasn’t because — it appears — America is waking up to the fact that he’s not merely misguided, misinformed, uninformed and incompetent, he’s flat-out delusional. He can’t spout “Radical Islam” enough, but on Holocaust Day, he failed to mention the Jews because it might offend the other 6 million victims of the camps and the shooting pits. That’s how they roll in alt-fact world.
In reality, it’s more like fear of offending Bannon’s alt-right, beer gut Barcalounger lugs.
This morning, I read where DT’s handlers have warned Prince Charles not to lecture him on climate change, lest he “erupt.” You can’t make this crap up.
So, I’m not depressed. I'm taking great delight in watching the dupes and bigots and pious hypocrites hem-and-haw and pivot and blame the victims for the golden-plumed run-away garbage truck that is the illegitimate 45th President of the United States.
So, all the people I blocked, all the old high school pals and wacko cousins I unfriended because they compared Michelle Obama to a monkey and called Hillary Clinton a cunt, they’re back in. The posts that nauseated me a year ago have me in stitches today. They sharing boilerplate love-the-flag, hate-Madonna nonsense or puppy videos and dessert recipes.
What fun! They emptied their bank accounts on ammo and guns three or four times during the Obama administration, and now, under Trump, they’re self-medicating with chocolate sheet cake and lemon bars. The irony is too sweet.