I sat down and wrote up a brief letter I was gonna send to the White House, requesting an interview with Trump. Short, concise and pleasant. And then I started filling in all the required information and learned that my email had to be shorter than a tweet. No pun intended, I’m being totally serious. All I was able to write was that I was requesting an interview with Covfefe (I didn’t use that name) before it cut me off at the pass.
Upon careful consideration, I thought it better not to send a request that was going to relegate me to a list which consists of fifth graders and nut jobs. Soooooo . . . the Trump fake interview will happen instead. Unlike the legit interview I would’ve done with Trump . . I get to make up my own rules with this ‘boob job’.
A few more thoughts that zig inside the zag of voices in my head? Sure why not . . .
- Never, ever run in frozen winds that whip harder than a Dominatrix with anger issues. I know this rule. I abide by this rule, like almost all the time. Excepting for today, when I ran into the face of an arctic blast that put my face on ice as if it were a button man for the mob. And what’s worse, I ran after having imbibed a couple glasses of water. There I was, a mile out when my nether region was called on to provide a service that wasn’t feeling natural in the least bit. I did an about face, prayed to Jesus, Mary and Joe and went Sun Tzu and Mojave with my thoughts until I arrived back home safe and dry. Moral of the story: Failure to prepare is akin to pissing in the wind (almost).
- Four episodes into Mr. Robot and loving every minute of it. Rami Malek plays a hacker with a righteous soul who’s trying not to drown inside an evil world. Dark, dastardly, delightful. Thanks to Frank for the 411 on this show.
- My body has returned to it’s regularly scheduled programming (a wind chilled run notwithstanding) after taking on the black diamonds of Blue Mountain last week. I never realized I was taking my life in my hands when I used to do this shit on a regular basis. I gotta say, I felt downright fucking heroic after surviving it. Also stupid, a little stupid. Bourbon is a great peacemaker . . just saying.
- I wouldn’t give a penny to this wall. A strong leader doesn’t need a wall, because a strong leader makes the existing policies work where they failed before. A strong leader doesn’t make promises he knows he can’t keep for the sake of political expediency. A strong leader doesn’t blame everyone but himself when shit goes wrong, because he knows where the buck is supposed to stop. I didn’t name names, because I don’t have to.
- Besides, a moat would be so much more cost effective. And way cooler. Way . . .
- Potato salad always seems like a good idea until I’m eating it.
- Bundt cake . . it never disappoints like that.
- Tom Brady crying “poor me” just doesn’t work. Feeling sorry for Brady and his team because they’re Vegas underdogs is like feeling sorry for Brad Pitt’s penis . . or Bill Gates’s bank account. Ain’t. Happening.
- I never got on the craft beer bandwagon. Craft beers are like sliders, they don’t jibe with my particular opinions on beer and burgers. But . . I do have a few faves as per the former. Rogue Dead Guy Ale is one of ’em. Linds B reminded me about it recently when she told me she picked some up. We are not easy customers, so let’s just say the stuff really is very tasty.
- Storms, more winter storms and freezing temps. And not a single Dennis Quaid sighting. I think we’re safe . . .
- I want to pet a lion before I die. I mean, not right before I die from being mauled and then eaten by said lion. Like . . I pet the lion, survive . . and then many years later I remember that moment on my death bed. Okay, you know what . . I just like lions. I don’t really need to pet one.
Welp, I could go on. And on. But there’s only so much time in the day, and I have to go in fresh when I see my therapist.
Peace and warmth.