“The objectively stupidest president in our nation’s often boneheaded history, the undisputed clown-car king of This Time, attempted, via one of the oldest racist tropes in the old-white-man canon, to malign one of the smartest men ever to hold our highest office, along with one of the classiest, most accomplished and beloved of First Ladies.”
I started this post, a pre-appraisal of this year of our wisely absent Lord, 2025, on the night of Dec. 31 of the previous one. It’s something I’ve undertaken in some fashion most New Year’s, for more than a decade now. But this time, I just stopped, right in the middle of it. I couldn’t …
Early last evening, still a ways prior to the pop-off chaos of July 4 celebration, I was down at the end of our driveway messing with some damn yard blemish or other, just up from the stationary parade of tiny United States flags my one neighbor puts out along his curb every time a day …
In the game of golf, as in life, there are penalties. Without some repercussions built into the system, your bulbous neighbors Gareth and Becky Anne are soon enough dancing buck-wild nekkid in your shared driveway under the new strawberry moon, while your “president” is illegally deporting your fellow citizens to foreign countries where they yank …
This will surely piss off some of you. Fine. The time to be pissed off is now. You fucks. You lousy, defeatist fucks. Now that I’ve set the tone: This is an open letter to the Democratic Party, from one of your own. To be more exact, likely soon to be one of your former …
My name is Frank, and I’m a registered Democrat. And I need support; we all do, if we you are part of the increasingly diminishing collective that’s still in this awful boat with me. Because lately, identifying in any way as a Democrat is as much to my shame as anything. I have voted almost …
Yesterday, something not at all unexpected, but in no way less foul, was revealed, and which today, in source after source, even on GOP-blinded Fox News, has been confirmed, in one detail after another. Today the “President,” your president, perhaps, somebody’s President anyway, not mine, not a chance, was revealed, again and again, through his …
Some people celebrate birthdays, cake, friends coming together, drunken foolishness, whatever. Me, I have reckonings. So, trade ya …
Facts. These are all FACTS. Not fake news. Not hyperbole. Not partisan yammering. FACTS.
These last few days, and my own hometown’s appalling part in them, have battered my spirit into an ugly husk of itself, a balloon of despair inflated within a leathery suit of nerve-aching skin. I am not being merely melodramatic, as can certainly be my way; my beloved country’s slippery slope down into blind idiotic …