Archive for November, 2017

Sunday Morning, Going Down


Leave Them Be

Johnny Depp has been slipping into the abyss ever since sprouted whatever was that brain tumor that compelled him to leave longtime partner Vanessa Paradis.

Most recently he arrived at a premiere, for the thoroughly unnecessary remake of Murder on the Orient Express, too inebriated to walk without assistance.

The photos snapped of him there are nakedly revealing: he looks exactly how any person would feel, if, everywhere they went, total strangers were staring at them, screaming at them, taking pictures of them, reaching out for them.

Can you imagine living like that?

Normally such people have to put on masks, to make the ordeal seem not only Sane, but Normal.

But, because of the inebriates, Depp, in this case, could not. And so he let everyone see, exactly how scary it feels. If only. They would. See.

Whenever I have encountered a famous person, I have treated them like the meter reader. Because I don’t want to make them feel like that.

Rapist Can’t Spell

The rapist resident in the Whiter House, having recently returned from two weeks of molesting Asia, where they are now all in therapy, last night chortled in the twitlers:

The Al Frankenstien picture is really bad, speaks a thousand words. Where do his hands go in pictures 2, 3, 4, 5 & 6 while she sleeps? And to think that just last week he was lecturing anyone who would listen about sexual harassment and respect for women. Lesley Stahl tape?

Numberless are the sins of the Americans, that they are condemned to this Mongo, brain smooth as glass, incapable even of correctly spelling his own name.

Mongo has assiduously avoided commenting on the adventures of Roy Moore, the time-tunneling nincompoop from Alabama, who has throughout his life sexually pursued teens, pre-teens, toddlers, infants, and zygotes. He’s in a bind there, is Mongo: he doesn’t want to support Moore, and then have the video come out of Moore masturbating on the stroller, and he doesn’t want to condemn Moore, because then people will say, yes, well, but what about that you yourself, Mongo, are a violent serial sexual predator, a rapist, a man who bones his own daughter? Mongo is hoping Moore can on his own rally the faithful, through embarking on a journey across the state, on foot, bearing the granite Ten Commandments on his back, like Jesus with the cross ascending Golgotha, the yeehawing Roids everywhere running out to weep and throw themselves at his feet, a hideous, mind-numbing Spectacle that would have De Mille rolling over in ecstasy, out there in the boneyard.

“What we need is a diversion!” Mongo yowled into the earhole of The Nazi, recalling how, during the late, lamented presidential campaign of 2016, when came the tape documenting that Mongo’s preferred method of introducing himself to a woman is to “grab ’em by the pussy,” “move on her like a bitch,” his great good friends at Rooskileaks immediately excreted a shitpile of stolen emails referencing the Clinton II woman.


Sitting Around Writing Headlines For The Daily News Would Be A Fun Job

Columnist Forecasts One, Two, Many Mongos; Heroin Futures Soar

For many, if not most, Americans, the only pleasure to be had from Donald Trump’s presidency is to imagine his premature eviction from the White House. Impeachment, the 25th Amendment, pick your poison. My own scenario places Trump on Richard Nixon’s Watergate resignation timetable, fleeing next August to Mar-a-Lago as federal bloodhounds close in on him, his son, or his son-in-law (or all three) and his party’s Vichy regime on the Hill at last mutinies in the face of what could well be an apocalyptic Election Day in 2018.

But don’t celebrate just yet. Once Trump exits—whenever and however he goes—then what? It’s a continuing liberal blind spot to underestimate the resilience of Trumpism, which, if history is any guide, will easily survive both the crack-up of the GOP and the implosion of the Trump presidency. Whether Trump lasts another three weeks, another three years, or another seven years, our troubles won’t be over when he’s gone. They may well get worse.

What we should be worrying about instead is the remarkable staying power of the American voters who put these guys in office. They’re in for the long game no matter the fate of the current administration. Trumpism predates Trump and Pence by decades and is a more powerful, enduring, and scary force than either of them. The toxic anger that defines Trumpism—a rage at America’s cultural and economic elites in both political parties as well as at minorities and immigrants—will only grow darker and fiercer once its namesake leaves office, no matter how he does so. If Trump departs involuntarily, his followers will elevate him to martyrdom as the victim of a coup perpetrated by the scoundrels of “fake news” and “the swamp.” If Trump serves one or two full terms, his base will still be livid because he will not have bestowed the lavish gifts he promised, from a Rust Belt manufacturing comeback to a border wall. His voters won’t pin these failures on Trump but on the same swamp creatures they’ll hold responsible if he’s run out of office. They’re already blaming the cratering of “repeal and replace” and other broken Trump promises on what Bannon and his allies call “the McConnell-industrial complex.”


There’s An Echo In Here

The big news here is that at my friend’s work the bosses bought a bunch of Echoes from Bezos thinking they would be useful for the employees. But that didn’t work out. The employees then took them home, but got frustrated with them there, too, and so returned them to the office, where they were sitting forlorn in a box. I told her if I had one I would prod it into sentience by asking it questions like “what kind of fool am I?” and “how many roads must a man walk down, before they call him a man?” and then, once the light clicked on, I would use it to determine the answers to the Real questions, like “where is the nearest time tunnel?” and “how can Mongo be stopped?” My friend was tickled by that, and so she went to retrieve one from the office, to give to me, but apparently one of her coworkers had sold them all to buy drugs. So she ordered me a new one from Bezos and it arrived yesterday afternoon. It is all rainy here today, and so after I get done with a lawyer I am going to activate it, and see if I can get it to levitate by the end of the day.

Why, When I Encounter MongoRoid Apologists Wringing Hands About White “Economic Anxiety,” I Vomit

Everyone knows that wealth is unequally distributed. But the magnitude of the gap between white and black Americans is on a different scale. White households own, on average, seven times as much wealth as African-American households (and six times as much as Latino ones). The Forbes 100 billionaires are collectively as rich as all black Americans combined. At current growth rates, it would take black Americans two hundred and twenty-eight years to have as much wealth as white Americans have today.

James Suroweicki

When I Worked

November 2017
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