Sock It To Me Baby

I’m not sure when it happened, but at some point over the last couple years, colorful patterned men’s socks officially became A Thing. It feels like suddenly they were everywhere. We’re not talking basic argyles; we’re talking polka dots, stripes, paisley, whimsical. The whole gamut. In fact, men’s socks are so much of A Thing that they now have sock vending machines. Seriously. I’m just not following the thought process. I need socks, let me go look for a vending machine? Or socks are now an impulse purchase? I guess this started with the ancient Greek philosophers, who first proclaimed that life is too short for boring gladiator sandals.

sockmachine

A hosiery vending machine would have been an awesome idea back when women had to wear pantyhose every single damn day. Because back then, everything was precarious; every desk corner, finger nail, piece of jewelry was a possible weapon in the war on pantyhose. If I ever managed to get through an entire day without a run in my hose, I inevitably damaged them when I was ripping them off the minute I walked through the door each night. And if I managed to preserve a pair through all that, and through a washing, they would absolutely tear the next time I was putting them on. Because it is a well known cosmic rule that pantyhose can only be worn once. And the more expensive they are, the less likely you are to even get one full wear out of them.

That’s why I came up with my own rule. If my pantyhose ran before lunch, well, I pulled on a new pair from my stash in my desk. If it was after lunch, no. Just no. Going with no hose was unthinkable back then (unthinkable!) so I would walk around pretending I had just then ripped them. Oh no! Will you look at that? Mostly I would try to stay behind my desk. But short of having some important meeting or after hours event, if those hose ripped after lunch, that was that.

So yes, we could have used a vending machine but of course women aren’t as simple as men. In any regard. In this instance, pantyhose come in 22 different shades, 15 different sizes and 30 different styles, and if you do the math on that, well, it would have to be a gargantuan machine.

Men aren’t capable of calculating all those variables so the world has been streamlined for them. What size are those socks? The size that fits all men. What color are those socks? Blackish, brownish, go-with-anythingish. In other words, colorful patterned socks, so men can’t go wrong. They just carefully insert their credit card, push a button and bam! Socks to go. Without ever setting socked foot in an actual store. This is a big win for men. And really, a big win for women. We might be able to finally trust them to buy their own damn socks. So that’s something to be grateful for today. Also not having to wear pantyhose every day. That’s something worth celebrating. And for that, I know just where to get the supplies. There’s a candy machine right next to the socks. And right next to that is diet soda.

So diet soda and chocolate on the sidelines while men pat themselves on the back for buying a pair of socks. Who’s in?

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People Suck

I’m having a hard time being funny today. And I’m having a hard time understanding why I’m having a hard time. Because any other day I ignore the countless hordes of people suffering and dying from war and terrorism and famine and genocide and lack of clean drinking water, and and and; to bring you mildly funny content. Throw me a bone and give me mildly funny OK? I need it today.

So why are we so much sadder when terrorists hit a beautiful western European city? Paris, Brussels…is it because it reminds us too much of our own cosmopolitan cities? Is it because we’ve traveled there, we know people who live there; it’s not as foreign to us as some unpronounceable long forgotten place elsewhere in the world? I don’t really know. All I can say is that today is going to be the day I let the overwhelming sadness of what humans are capable of doing to other humans (not to mention other animals) wash over me. Not just because Brussels is a beautiful city with amazing food and chocolate (seriously) and wonderful people, some of whom I know. But because I’m fed up with it all.

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That’s Great, But Will It Help My Bravo TV Addiction?

So I’ve been titrating up on a new medication. For those of you who don’t deal with this crap all the time, in this context titrate means to slowly adjust the dosage of a medication to either ramp up or ramp down, slowly, so as not to shock the system. I have to do this a lot, because my doctors think it’s amusing to change up all my meds every 6 months and see what happens to me. They just make some popcorn and sit back and watch. I am fascinating, clinically speaking.

A brand new drug specific to my condition was approved by the FDA in December, and I got my paws on it last month. This is a good thing and I am grateful. My doctor wants me on the maximum dose which takes about 8 weeks. The idea is that my body will slowly adjust to the med and minimize side effects. On the flip side, guess how long it is until I’m supposed to start feeling the benefit of the drug? Go ahead, guess! You are clever indeed. It takes 8-12 weeks before I feel any relief in my breathing. Pretty much my whole titration period is spent dealing with crappy side effects while not benefiting from the medication at all. Awesome, right?

Dozens of Prescription Pill Bottles

Of course, if I have terrible side effects or need to change meds yet again I can’t just stop taking the damn thing; I have to titrate down just about the same way. In fact, I am pretty much perpetually titrating up on one medication and/or down on another because as I’ve mentioned, it amuses my previously bored doctors. But typically I can’t even weigh the good v. bad side effects for at least 8 weeks. Now you know what I do in my free time.

When starting a new drug, I very specifically do not read up on the side effects, because I don’t want to be subconsciously influenced. First year med student disease, where I suddenly have every single side effect they list. I make Dan read it instead so he can ascertain whether I’m whining because of a real side effect or just because I like to whine, or both. Honestly, it is frequently both.

At any rate, this new med has been causing me nausea, and what I’ve noticed in my now vast medical experience, is that pretty much everything causes nausea. So much so that my doctor prescribed anti-nausea medicine to take with my new medicine(s). That’s another thing-assume a ratio of 1.5 side effect medications for each and every medication you take. Side effects are no problem! They just prescribe more drugs.

I find myself wondering why medication can’t be packed with good side effects? So yes, I am primarily interested in better breathing, but it wouldn’t kill them to also include an agent that gives me the overwhelming urge to grocery shop and cook. Or something that convinces me there really is a second book to be written (just to make my mom happy). I could definitely use a little something to break my fixation with reality TV. And how about a side effect where candy and cake suddenly taste really bad and I crave kale and whole grains? Why does that not happen?

kale

So this is my open plea to pharmaceutical companies: throw me a bone. Please give me something that makes me say “oh boy, I hope I get that side effect!” Because it really wouldn’t kill you and I’ve asked you quite nicely.

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Keep It Simple Stupid!

For many years I had a basic old school alarm clock. It displayed the time in big red numbers. There was a set time button, a set alarm button and a snooze button. There was an hours button and a minutes button. Then there was a button you could slide, alarm off or alarm on. This is the kind of thing I can operate. Set. On. Off.

alarmclockold

But they just don’t make things to last like they used to. After only 35 years, the damn thing broke. The time started running fast. Like an hour fast, then minutes were clicking by like seconds. Still I clung to my alarm and tried to make do.

Of course, it was inevitable. It happened. Dan said it was time for a new alarm and he came home with what I can only describe as a contraption. I guess it told time and had an alarm but it had dozens of buttons all of which were labeled something helpful like CMPTQ or SDZXC.

alarmclocknew

I had not a clue how to operate it. And Dan trying to teach me something typically ends badly. Very badly for him in fact. By day two I was threatening to throw the thing out the window. By day three I had it in hand and was headed to the window and Dan had to gently take it away from me and put me back on my meds. It was officially over for me and this alleged alarm clock. I don’t know what Dan did with it but it’s gone.

In its place is a simpler alarm clock but it’s not simple enough for me. I am simpler. I mastered the huge snooze button no problem. But then I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off completely. I just sat there like an idiot hitting snooze every 9 minutes. I mean exactly like an idiot. Dan smirked. This is bad for Dan’s health and you’d think he would know better by now.

In a voice reserved for a small child or a very, very stupid adult, Dan showed me the button that would turn the alarm off. Fine. Except, the next morning the button didn’t work. I got frustrated and started hitting every button on the stupid thing but nothing worked. Dan came over and gave me that look that says “you’re a hopeless idiot but I love you anyway.” I responded with a look that says “I hope no one poisons your dinner tonight.”

The next morning, Dan sort of stalks me and watches me hit the button he showed me to hit. He sees that the button does not work. So I do the unthinkable: I read the manual. Yes, the manual that takes 62 pages to explain concepts like set, on and off. I tell Dan the manual says I’m supposed to hit a different button, not the one he told me to hit. In his most confident voice Dan says the manual is wrong. I quietly slide him the manual. He looks at it. Twitches his mustache. Sniffs a little. “Ohhh. Umm hmmm. Well, I see what happened here. You would hit the button I showed you if uh, mumble mumble mumble, but otherwise I guess you hit the button they show here.” Yeah. No kidding.

Morning rolls around, I hit the button that both the manual and Dan now agree is the right one. The alarm continues to go off. Now we’re both steamed. I ask Dan if we can throw it out the window together, and I can tell he briefly considers it before regaining his composure and deciding that the real problem is that it needs new batteries. Sure.

So the alarm clock still sits on my night stand, and Dan still sets it. Some days one button turns it off, and other days a different button turns it off. On a number of days the alarm hasn’t gone off at all. So it’s not super reliable as these things go.

I know what you’re thinking-I can just use the alarm on my phone. And right you are. It is easy to use, reliable, convenient. But what’s the fun in that? And even more importantly, actually solving the problem provides no entertainment value at all. And I would hate to deprive everyone.

 

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What The World Needs Now: Another Semi-Amusing Blog

People frequently ask me why I blog. [Not a single person has ever asked me that but it’s important to the set-up here, so go with it, OK?] There are many reasons, but the most compelling is that I blog because my mom makes me.

Yes, I’m 51 years old and capable of making my own decisions. But my mom is capable of nagging me nonstop, and according to my mom, the entire world loves my blog. It’s just easier not to argue.

Mom: You know, absolutely everyone is telling me how thrilled they are that you’re blogging again.

Me: Who is everyone?

Mom: Everyone! All my friends, all of their friends, the entire state of Florida and obviously everyone living on any of the Delmarva beaches. Obviously. Plus, your cousins in Wyoming.

Me: We don’t have any cousins in Wyoming. We’re Jewish.

Mom: But if we did have cousins in Wyoming, I guarantee they would be reading your blog, and loving it. Just like everyone else does.

Me: Mom, you’re getting a little carried away.

Mom: I’m not saying this because of me! I’m telling you, people stop me in the street to tell me how much they enjoy your blog, and how talented you are, and I let them all know you’re working on your second book.

Me: Mom! I’m not working on a second book. There is no second book. No book is forthcoming.

Mom: Well you say that now honey, but I feel like there is another book in you, and it’s going to come out.

Me: That makes it sound like I have a stomach ache and whether I like it or not I’m going to have to puke.

Mom: Can you hold on? Someone is coming in on call-wait.

Me:

Mom: That was your cousin in Idaho. She was calling to tell me she loves your blog and was also asking when your second book is coming out. I told her it should be out by the end of the year.

Me: Mom! We don’t have any cousins in Idaho. We’re Jewish! Besides, no one lives in Idaho. It’s a myth. And there is no second book!

Mom: Listen honey, I’m going to let you go because I know you’re working on your blog and your next book.

Me: Are you &%$#^&&@ kidding me?

Anyway, for the millions and millions of you reading my blog (insert massive eye roll here), thank you. To my imaginary cousins everywhere, there is no second book. And to my mom, I love you, and if it’s that important to you that I write another book…I’m still not doing it!

I’m doomed.

P.S. To the many Jewish people who no doubt live in Wyoming and Idaho (if those two places truly exist), my apologies. This is comedy folks. Go with it.

blogmom

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The State Of My Mind

Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep. I read recently that a good technique to keep your mind from wandering and to fall back asleep is to mentally alphabetize all of the states.

cantsleep

I’ve tried this method a number of times, and perhaps it works if you’re a normal person, but not if you’re me. Here’s why:

  1. In my head I try to count while I list each state, to be sure I didn’t miss any. Then I realize I’m at Wyoming but have only counted to 34. Then I realize I missed all the N states altogether, and did I forget the C states too? Better start again
  2. New England is sketchy, because that’s a whole lot of small states all squashed together and I can’t always separate them in my mind when I’m doing my final checklist to make sure I didn’t miss anything because I lost count again. Yes, it’s now 2 hours later and I am going through the map state by state. So this is working well
  3. The Carolinas and Dakotas. Why must we have two of each? Not to mention all the states that start with New
  4. Sometimes, just to challenge myself, I try to start with the original 13 colonies. Then I think if I had a better memory I could put all 50 states in the order in which they joined the union. When was the damn Louisiana Purchase? Seward’s Folly? Which incidentally, when you think about wasn’t such folly because Alaska is awesome. Although, Alaska also gave us Sarah Palin, who we could live without. I mean, what is her deal? Good thing my mind isn’t wandering
  5. I have an overwhelming urge to turn on the light and write all the states in alphabetical order, to be sure I got them all since I keep losing count. This too defeats the purpose
  6. Around Utah I realize that I forgot Missouri again. Do I go back to the Ms to be sure I got them all, or just throw Missouri in there haphazardly between Vermont and Virginia? And doesn’t that defeat the purpose of alphabetizing? And doesn’t this whole thing defeat the purpose of trying to freaking sleep?
  7. I think about what states border California and that sends me way off onto a tangent reminiscing about a very wonderful girls’ weekend I had in Lake Tahoe. We drove all the way around the lake, from the California side to the Nevada side and back around to California. We had so much fun that weekend! Like the evening that we…OK, I’ve definitely defeated the purpose again
  8. I chastise myself for not doing a better job of keeping in touch with my Tahoe Trip girls. Has it really been 10 years since that trip? Let’s see, I was living in New York at the time, so it had to be 2006? And is it really now already 2016? OK, once again, not sleeping
  9. I try to remember if I’ve ever been to New Mexico. I don’t think I have, but it would really make sense to get a map and pin the places I’ve been so I know what ground is left to cover; if, and only if, I care about visiting all 50 states. Which I don’t. But still, shouldn’t I know where I’ve been before I’m too old to remember? Wait, I am at this moment unable to remember if I’ve ever set foot in New Mexico! What the hell is wrong with me? Did I or didn’t I? Sleep continues to be elusive
  10. Letters for which there are not a state. B, for example, a perfectly nice letter but no states that start with B. Why? And if there was a state name that started with B, would I visit? Would it be on the west coast? Maybe a state needs to be renamed, like the stupid North and South situation with the Carolinas and the Dakotas

Anyway, if I have dark circles under my eyes, you’ll know why. This is the state I’m in.

map

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My Equal Employment Opportunity

An email from the EEOC popped up in my inbox. Apparently, I applied for a job at a company they are now investigating for age discrimination. The company is one of those places likely to have new age open seating design and 20 somethings running around coming up with clever new uses for their app.

hip

At my age, I am just barely cool enough to even use the word “app.” From what I surmise/pieced together/assumed, they were hiring based on a concept of who would fit in with 20 somethings. And that is certainly not me. To be honest, I myself was thinking that when I applied for the job, but then I reminded myself that I am hip, cool, down with the youth. Totally down. Sure, I’m used to having an office with a door, but given the chance I would no doubt adapt to working in a shared hive. No. Doubt.

The EEOC email contained a link to a survey that asked me about my experience applying for a job and interviewing. I never got called for an interview. At the time I thought nothing of it because dozens of places never called me for an interview. I’m used to rejection. When I was looking for a job I was competing with a gazillion other highly educated Washingtonians with impeccable resumes. That’s just how it goes. But now, this investigation has me rethinking. I take umbrage at the fact that I may have been discriminated against! Five minutes into the survey, I am convinced that although I can’t even remember what the job was, I was eminently qualified for the job; in fact I was the most qualified person for that job ever, and I have been done wrong.

EqualOpportunityEmployer

I start thinking about the class action law suit that is sure to come next. I imagine that I am the name plaintiff because my case was the most egregious instance of discrimination ever, and I realize this whole thing may end up being a Lifetime made-for-TV movie. So clearly I need to consider who will play me in the movie.

Naturally, with a life as exciting as mine, this isn’t the first time I imagined a movie all about me, me, me. My first choice to play me in any movie has long been Camryn Manheim. I love her because many years ago when she won an Emmy for The Practice she held it up in triumph and said “This is for all the fat girls!” But still. Does Camryn really have the acting chops for this role? Can she play me in all my complexity; the brave me, the stalwart me, the resolute me, the super qualified me? I know she won an Emmy and all, but it’s an intricate role that will require a good degree of finesse.

camryn

I wonder whether or not Tina Fey is too young to play a woman who is battling a life-altering case of age discrimination. Then I start wondering if choosing an actress is itself fraught with allegations of age discrimination. Or any discrimination for that matter. Could an African American actress capture my essence? Maybe. But what if there was a lawsuit over discriminating against actors while casting a film about a discrimination lawsuit? I start thinking that I am possibly overthinking this whole thing.

The bottom line is that the EEOC thinks that there is a possibility that I, and scores of others, have been done wrong. So it is my right, and quite possibly my very duty as an American, to seek recompense. Perhaps given six figures from the company, and six figures in royalties from the movie, I might be able to get over this whole tragedy. But I’ll have to give it some more thought.  Also, does anyone know what Camryn’s up to these days?

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Give Me An O! Give Me An L! Give Me A D! What Have You Got? Facebook Group!

Nostalgia reigns supreme on Facebook. We all want to remember the younger, thinner, healthier versions of ourselves, and reimagine that our world then was perfect. I admit I do my fair share of indulging too.

Recently I was added to a new FB group set up for people who graduated from my high school 25-40+ years ago. I graduated in 1982, so fall solidly in the middle at 34 years. People have posted a lot of fun pics and memories, and what I find most interesting is how much freakin’ stuff people a)remember and b)have hoarded away all these years.

Graduation tassel? Yeah, like everyone else I used to hang it on my rear view mirror 100 years ago, but where is it now? Long, long gone. As are those from college and grad school. Because at some point or another I was cleaning out a drawer or closet and pulled out those tassels and thought, “what the f*ck am I ever going to do with these?” Other people apparently never had that thought, or if they did they ignored it, because they are posting pictures of their tassels, old school newspapers and clippings about various high school sports teams, etc. One person posted a picture of our high school guidebook. I don’t think I ever knew there was a guidebook that listed all the rules, office hours, what was going in my permanent record…I mean, seriously, there was a guidebook? And even more incredibly, someone held on to it for 40 years?

memory

People started posting about their favorite teachers, classes, who they sat next to in 10th grade English. How do people remember this stuff? I tried, really hard, to remember going to class, what class it was, and who taught it. Any class, in any of my four years. A few vague memories because I loved the subject (English, History, Spanish) but mostly drawing a blank. Now, those of you who knew me in high school might have some kind of smart ass remark about how much school we skipped. And it is entirely possible that I spent more time eating fries and drinking shakes at McDonald’s and hanging out with friends in someone’s basement (oh, we all had basements, that’s for sure) than I did in school, but I barely even remember that stuff. I do remember flunking 10th grade PE, but, you’ll have to admit that’s pretty memorable, especially since I had to go to summer school to make it up.

Then there is talk of pep rallies. I feel very confident in saying that in four years of high school I never, ever attended a pep rally. That may be when I was at “McDonald’s” having a “shake.” Well, that was my story anyway. People talk about whatever big, exciting football game they remember. Clearly my experience was lacking, because what I remember of football games is being under the bleachers, not on them. Let’s just say school spirit was not my strong point.

People also began posting split screen pictures; their senior picture side-by-side with a super flattering, perfectly (dimly) lit, allegedly current picture. There are pictures of groups of giggling teenagers dressed in plaid shirts and cut-offs for the annual Sadie Hawkins dance. I have a vague memory of going to Sadie Hawkins one year, but if there is a picture from that uneventful evening, I sure as hell don’t have it.

One woman posted pictures of herself wearing two different cheerleading uniforms, in a cheerleading pose (I hope that’s what she was doing), but the pictures were just recently taken, like, yesterday. She noted that she simply couldn’t find any old pics so had no choice but to pull out the old uniforms and take new pics. OK, fine, I’m impressed that anything from high school still fits this woman; I probably couldn’t get my big toe into something I wore in high school. But the thing is, are we expected to believe that over the past 40 years she didn’t keep any photos, but did keep at least two of her cheerleading uniforms? Is that what she’s trying to sell? Because I call BS on that. It would be better if she just said “I could have posted an old picture, but hey, check me out, I still fit in my high school cheerleading uniform!” I can respect that.

Will Ferrell and Cheri O'Teri on SNL. Yes, my school team was Spartans and yes, our colors were orange and blue. Go figure.

Will Ferrell and Cheri O’Teri on SNL. Yes, my school team was Spartans and yes, our colors were orange and blue. Go figure.

I finally gave in and pulled out my old yearbooks, the only thing I still have from high school, to see if I could jog my memory. The people I recognize are people with whom I am still friends to this day. A number of other people are familiar simply because we went through high school, junior high, and in some cases even elementary school together. Or because one of my brothers was friends with one of their siblings. Or because they lived in my neighborhood and rode the same bus as me. Stuff like that. Keep in mind I went to a huge high school, graduating class of about 600, so even if 100 of them ring a bell somewhere, I don’t know the majority of them. I definitely can’t remember who I sat next to in 10th grade biology and/or who taught said biology class.

Looking through the yearbook was fun though, because it reminded me of several things. First, I’m really glad to be an adult. I had a fine high school experience, but if given the chance I wouldn’t hop in a time machine and go back again. Second, fashion. I remember all my Calvin Klein jeans, Mia clogs, Frye boots, wool skirts, platform shoes, painter’s pants, rainbow t-shirts, GASS shoes and last but not least, Gunne Sax dresses. Cause, you had to have at least one Gunne Sax dress. You just had to or else you would absolutely die! I may not remember many of my classmates, or nearly any of my teachers, but I guarantee you I remember every outfit and every pair of shoes I ever owned. Ever. In fact, going all the way back to childhood I not only remember my own clothes, I remember my Barbie’s clothes. Malibu Skipper’s too. Third, we were living in the dark ages. There are pictures of pay phones and mimeograph machines, and a full lunch cost 85 cents, which according to the 1982 yearbook was an outrageous increase over the prior year. And PAC-MAN was the new cool thing that was also apparently destroying life as we knew it.

Banned by some local governments? Seriously? I think someone made that up.

Banned by some local governments? Seriously? I think someone made that up.

For the stuff I don’t remember, the yearbook put everything in context. It was an exciting time in the country and in the world.

Imagine that I was a senior in high school before a woman sat on the Supreme Court.

Imagine that I was a senior in high school before a woman sat on the Supreme Court.

We didn’t know that in the blink of an eye we would have technology beyond our wildest imagination and that we would ever, ever be older than our parents were at that very moment. We sure as hell didn’t anticipate Facebook. Except maybe that one chick, who held on to her uniforms and managed to stay skinny enough to still fit in them. Maybe she knew.

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A Helpful Guide To Landing Elected Office

Just as we little people must interview well in order to land a job, politicians and even The Great Trump himself have to campaign to win the job of…well, whatever it is they are going to claim to do.

interviewcampaigntrump

If politicians were subject to a garden variety job interview, the key to success would vary greatly depending on whether or not they are a Mere Mortal Politician or Trump. Here are what I believe to be winning strategies for each for acing the interview and landing the job…

Background

Mere Mortal Politician: Humble beginnings, with any luck one or both parents were blue collar workers, if not, make it seem that way; grainy pictures of immigrant grandparents working on the railroad scores bonus points

Trump: Rich, amazing, great, fantastic, best ever, even though he started with paltry $1M loan; mother, daughter, sister, grandma and aunts all hot enough to bang if he wasn’t a blood relative

Education

Mere Mortal Politician: Depends on audience. Maybe Ivy League or maybe State College on a scholarship, maybe West Point

Trump: Iviest Ivy League. Amazing student. Great student. Best student ever. Best roommate ever. Hottest man on campus. Banged women who were as hot as his daughter, whom he would bang, if she wasn’t his daughter

Skills

Mere Mortal Politician: Depends on audience. Common themes include knowing how to balance a budget, cut taxes, keep America safe, reach out across the aisle and/or never compromise; whatever is needed

Trump: Amazing, great, best ever at everything; domestic policy, tax code, federal budget, diplomacy and/or war mongering, ending terrorism, commanding troops, the art of the deal, building walls; special strengths include ridiculing losers, not getting captured in a war in which he never fought, and making balloon animals. Produces amazing, great, best ever offspring, hot enough to bang

Goals and Ambitions

Mere Mortal Politician: To selflessly represent the good people of the best damn country in the world

Trump: To continue to be amazing, great, fantastic; to trade in wife for younger, hotter version every 7-10 years; to find someone as hot as his daughter and bang her; to travel around the world building huge, great, amazing walls and making other countries pay for them; has an amazing, great, fantastic plan to  build world peace, end hunger, create jobs for all deserving, truly American, white Christians; no need to discuss specifics just know that it will be done

Hobbies, Affiliations and Personal Life

Mere Mortal Politician: Depends on audience. Some combination of church and bible study, baseball/football/basketball, maybe a sorority or fraternity; certainly include civic organizations with vague claims of huge accomplishments; solid family, married high school sweetheart, 2.5 non-descript children

Trump: Making money. Making amazing amounts of money. Greatest builder ever. Best billionaire ever. Richest person in country. Hottest wife and hot daughter whom he would absolutely bang if he wasn’t her dad. Depending on audience may or may not support KKK; would never wear a white hood, though, because orange tan stains don’t come out

I believe these are winning strategies for each and every candidate. Follow these guidelines and in no time at all you will hold elected office and will spend your days stomping your foot and refusing to do your job, while reporting to Emperor Trump, Commanderest-in-Chief

emperortrump

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Of Meatloaf And Love

As long as I’ve diluted my blog with tales of my brother CJ, here’s another one. I’m not sure how it happened, but there came a time when he and I had a profound insight about Meatloaf.

meatloaf

No, not the kind you eat, the kind who makes music.

meatloaf2

He had several big hits, from which a common theme emerged: he is incapable of enduring love.

Meatloaf is all about the anti-love love song. From one of his biggest hits, Paradise By The Dashboard Light:

“I swore that I would love you till the end of time

So now I’m praying for the end of time

To hurry up and arrive

Cause if I gotta spend another minute with you I don’t think that I can really survive

Now I’m praying for the end of time

So I can end my time with you”

Nothing says love like saying you can’t survive another single minute with the object of your devotion.

And another little ditty, Two Out Of Three Ain’t Bad

“I want you

I need you

But there ain’t no way I’m ever gonna love you

Now don’t be sad

Cause two out of three ain’t bad”

Wants, needs, no love. I believe nowadays the kids refer to this a Booty Call, or Friends with Benefits. 

Then there’s the classic, I’d Do Anything For Love

 “Anything for love

Oh, I would do anything for love

I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that

No, I won’t do that”

 And it is likely we will all die never knowing what “that” is, but we can guess that things didn’t end well.

The fact is, Meatloaf (as Eddie) has professed a deep and abiding love for one thing I can think of. From Rocky Horror Picture Show…Columbia may have loved Eddie, but in return…

“Hot patootie, bless my soul, I really love that rock ‘n’ roll”

Meatloaf. Just a little food for thought…

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