It's about TIME

A potato in a wig would’ve been a better choice for TIME Magazine’s Person of the year.

Sure, Trump has a personality—if you can call the chaotic mix of Twitter rants, spray tan, and ego a "personality." He’s like that one guy at the office holiday party who shows up uninvited, drinks all the eggnog, and insists on karaoke-ing “My Way” until HR makes him stop.

Oh yeah, and has the nuclear codes.

But does personality alone merit the honor? If that’s the bar, why not give the title to the inflatable dancing tube man outside your local car dealership. At least it’s flexible and doesn’t sue everyone who looks at it funny.

How far TIME has fallen. We’re talking about the same magazine that once named Albert Einstein and Martin Luther King Jr. as Person of the Year. And now they want to lump Trump in there? That’s like putting a gas station sushi chef in the Michelin Guide.

Einstein gave us the theory of relativity. Trump gave us the phrase “Covfefe.” King led a movement for equality. Trump led a movement to redefine what counts as a “huge” crowd size.

Come on TIME, have some self-respect.

And what exactly are Cadet Bone Spurs achievements? And I use the word achievements as loosely as an oversized navy blue suit jacket.

The man wanted to build a border wall, but all he ended up constructing was a metaphor for divisiveness. If walls could talk, they’d probably point at him, laugh and say, “What an asshole.”

Trump also logged more hours on the golf course during his presidency than a PGA pro. Presidential? Not unless your country’s GDP is measured in bogeys.

And let’s not forget Twitter. Trump’s tweets were the literary equivalent of giving a toddler a blowhorn and a bag of sugar.

IQ45’s time in office and beyond has been defined by a relentless downpour of lies. Fact-checkers needed overtime to keep up with his claims, ranging from "historic tax cuts" that mostly benefited the wealthy to his bullshit assertions the 2020 election, the safest and freest in history, was "stolen."

His relationship with the truth is so shaky, it might as well file for divorce.

But at least he’s surrounded by “the best people.” Or who he thinks are the best people. From Steve Bannon to Rudy Giuliani to Michael Flynn, his inner circle seemed like the cast from America's Most Wanted. Many of these advisors ended up entangled in legal troubles, resigning in disgrace, or both.

Add to that Trump’s ongoing legal battles, including 34 felony counts related to falsifying business records. His presidency would make the most scandal-hardened observers shake their heads in disbelief.

TIME’s Person of the Year is supposed to recognize the individual who "most influenced the events of the year, for better or worse.” Fair enough. Trump has influenced things, much like a drunk raccoon influences the contents of your trash can. But if we’re celebrating chaos for chaos’s sake, why not name a literal hurricane Person of the Year?

At this point, suggesting Trump for Person of the Year feels like a practical joke, one step above naming your cat CEO of your company. Sure, it might be funny for five minutes, but then you remember you actually have to live with the consequences.

If TIME really wants to rile people up for clicks, they could at least consider something a little less obvious. Maybe name literally anyone else—a healthcare worker, a scientist, even the squirrel that keeps wire-walking and fucking up my cable tv would be more deserving.

Donald Trump as Person of the Year is a bigly no from me. The most tremendous "no" anyone's ever seen. Not because he’s a Republican. Not because he’s a former president. Not even because his idea of diplomacy involves sharpies and McDonalds. It’s because TIME Magazine’s Person of the Year should inspire us to be better humans, not serve as an excuse for our therapists to raise their rates.

So, TIME, do us all a favor and leave Trump where he belongs. In the blooper reel, and in the dumpster, of American history. Not on the cover of your magazine.

It begins

First of all, happy new year, and congratulations for surviving—in a very literal sense—what’s sure to be the worst year in everyone’s life. I think I speak for all of us when I say I’m glad we made it, and there’s definitely nowhere to go but up.

Unless of course Cadet Bone Spurs has a(nother) Giuliani-size brain fart and decides to burn the house down on his way out. And out he will go, no matter how many calls he makes to Georgia.

Of course, despite the fact we’re still going to be using masks as a fashion statement, keeping our distance and washing our hands like Howard Hughes for the foreseeable future, there are a lot of things to look forward to in the coming year.

In just a Scaramucci and five days we’ll have a new sane, decent, smart and compassionate president. I don’t agree on all policy with him, but he’s already a breath of fresh sanity.

We’ll also have the first female, Black/Indian vice-president. I’m even more excited about Kamala because she was my first choice for the top job in the primary. My dream ticket was Harris/Buttigieg. It may still wind up being that. No one's getting any younger if you get my continental drift.

Dr. Fauci is staying on, and he’ll have a new president who believes in science, listens to and respects what he says, and will be a partner in finally bringing this horrible pandemic chapter to a close. As well as the run on bleach and hypodermic needles.

The vaccine. Just give it to me in the left arm like the flu shot. I never like waiting in line, but I’m more than willing to make an exception.

And as I’ve done so many times before, I buried the lead. The other thing you’ll have to look forward to, and you know you will, is another year of stimulating, insightful, side-spitting, far too long posts on Rotation and Balance. Now at the risk of sounding like the blogger who cried wolf, this year is actually positioned to be a stellar one in number of posts, if not in quality of writing. You can’t have everything.

Besides, who do you think I am. Round Seventeen?