Your yacht is not in the mail

Nov 23, 2016 at 7:53 am
Your yacht is not in the mail

“A Great Civilization is not conquered from without until it has destroyed itself from within”— W. Durant

So after suffering a shock-induced cardiac attack after witnessing Donald Trump be crowned the abusive Prom King of all of America, my consort, Shelby, managed to blast me back among the livin’ using two defibrillator paddles plugged into a boom box powered by Big Daddy Kane, and once my vitals were tested, and I was roundly reassured that I had in fact been successfully reanimated and was not, dead and burning in the Republican-ran section of hell, I reached for my smokes, but, low and behold, before I was able to fully comprehend the severity of this situation, or had even managed to light three cigarettes at once, I learned that white suburban women came out in droves to vote Trump/Pence, as if doing so entailed a free lap-dance from “Magic Mike” as a gratuity; and that’s when I lost my mind completely!

Hey ladies! What in the fuck?! Please explain that to me, and really spell it out, because for me, that don’t compute. I mean, imagine if Carly Fiorina had snagged the nomination and was caught on a hot-mic bragging to some D-list TV personality about how much she enjoyed cutting off dicks, and this bit of putrid information got leaked to the press, and it sent tsunami-size shock waves of repulsion and disgust through everyone with even an iota of human decency. But before we could even be like “Hey, did you hear about Carly Fiorina braggin’ about cutting off dicks? Aye Yai Yai,” here comes 12 dudes to publicly state “Yes, Carly Fiorina, actually cut my dick off, on purpose, and for her own pleasure” and then a blue-million white suburban males just shrugged it off and chalked it up as “wacky locker room banter” ‘cause, ya know, girls will be girls and all, and so off they ran to help usher in a dick-chopping lunatic? Because basically, white suburban women, that’s what happened!

If you’ve got the money honey, I’ve got the time.

Let’s give the bird to the butcher up front and honest like — I’m busted. Broke as a joke. Yet I gotta shove off to the same job I’ve held down for three-fives-stacked (that’s fifteen for those of you who don’t smash dominoes). So don’t look at me when blaming the rise of Trump on the working class, — blame Andrew Dice Clay fans, I guess. I mean, that piece of shit has sold millions of albums by being horrible, and it seems as if people with that level of mental capacity have come to collect some sort of retribution they feel the rest of us owe them. Look, I’m as blue collar as they come, I graduated high school by the narrowest of margins and now survive paycheck to paycheck. I don’t even have a fuckin’ bank account, hoss, so I haven’t a smidgen of doubt in me when it comes to the idea that people are suffering all over this country, thanks to economic inequality. My boat and my bucket are all full of holes! Hell, just the other day some kid came into work and asked me if I was still writing for the LEO. I told him, yeah, and then he asked me if I had met the Yarmuths yet. I almost fell over, I looked at this kid like he was a creature from another dimension who had just informed me he came here to bestow eternal life upon Burt Reynolds. Like on what planet do you think this is? How, in any capacity imaginable would my paths cross with a Yarmuth? I’m poor! Yeah, I vote Democratic, but I know I’m not of the party, because I don’t have those dollar, dollar bills, y’all. In no way would I ever be invited to something called a gala, where things get all eyes-wide shuty at the stroke of midnight. I really don’t know why people sniff wine, or blog about exotic cheeses, or how one lucks out in life to the point they take a sabbatical. I mean, look no swipe at Aaron or big John (yo John, congrats on the win: Give them reds holy hell in the House!), but my world is not their world, and boy, are our worlds getting farther apart. In my world, you work until your back gives out, and then you start on pain killers so you can get back to work, and all that ends with you as a junkie and overdosing, or you keep working until your body shuts down.

But Jesus please-us! You have got to be literally bedridden with the rage to think Trump is gonna lend your poor ass a helping hand and a better job outside of wall builder or pit fighter. The door of opportunities is gonna remain locked. Your yacht is not coming in the mail, you will not be rubbing shoulders with the likes of Larry The Cable Guy, your future will not be filled with tortilla chips shoveling caviar into your grub hole, there will be no masked orgies for you! Just more pain, more corporate abuse and more humiliation — more of the same, and probably worse. You’ve been duped, conned, played. It’s as if you got hammered and picked a candidate like picking up a stranger at a bar, and now your hookup is about to cook you up something hot and horrible and serve you to his dogs along with the rest of us. Happy Thanksgiving.