Shred this

Telecasters, gnarly waves and skateboards are just a few of things the word shred applies to. But this past weekend, I decided to finally get off my fat yet supple ass and go shred classic: documents.

The IRS, those friendly government folk who have their hands in your paycheck every two weeks, suggest keeping your tax returns forever, and the backup documents and receipts for seven years before getting rid of them.

Well, never let it be said I can’t take direction. In the cabinets above my son’s closet were accordian files and boxes filled with receipts for every year going back to 1995, and actual tax returns going back even further.

You do the math. Never mind, I’ll do it for you. That’s 26 years and then some.

It was a chore I’d been putting off, because frankly every time I’d look at my little personal shredder I could see it trying really hard not to make eye contact with me. It was like it was in the front row at an improv show when they were asking for volunteers.

Also, it never could’ve handled it. The motor overheats after about five minutes of straight shredding, and the tiny bin fills up fast and has to be emptied over and over and over.

After sorting out what I was going to keep—the most recent ten years worth—I decided to have the rest of it one and done by calling a professional shredding company. A quick search on Yelp, and I landed on PFS Shredding. In a word, they were awesome.

The truck you see above pulled up to the house. Immediately all the neighbors started wondering what secrets I had that were so important I had to hire a professional to do my shredding. I imagine the international spy theories were flying fast and furious—something I'm accustomed to given how similar Daniel Craig and I are built.

Or maybe they thought I was part of the last administration, just tiding up the paper trail before leaving the White House.

Anyway, my new best friend Mark, who owns PFS, rolled that trash bin up to my front door, and I emptied my boxes and folders full of papers into it. He rolled it back to the truck, where it was lifted and dumped into the shredder.

There’s a camera inside the truck, and I got to watch all my documents being shredded on that screen to the left of the bin elevator. I can’t adequately express the thrill of see decades of papers turned into confetti so fast. 26 years of documents were shredded in three minutes.

Also, PFS was out to my house within two hours of my call. So yes, the minute he left I wrote him a stellar Yelp review.

Now I’m on a complete tear. Every piece of paper and receipt I don’t need from now on is going into a box, and when I have enough I’m calling Mark again and having him bring his big old confetti making truck back.

It'll give the neighbors something to look forward to.

Stop the presses

You may have noticed since the unstable genius and his brown-nosing, boot-licking, ass-kissing, Russian-owned, democracy-hating, riot-inciting, fact-denying, fear-mongering minions have left the building—despite the physical and mental wreckage they left in their wake—a quiet sense of calm and professionalism is permeating the country.

As of January 20th, most people aren’t worried about Biden hitting the nuclear button because he didn’t like a tweet. Or firing someone because they didn’t kiss the ring. No one’s worried he’ll want to have a military parade to compensate for his little…hands. And there’s now absolutely zero chance of Ted Nugent, Kid Rock or known Russian spies ever being invited to the White House. Or what I like to call a win-win-win situation.

What there is however is a definite confidence that, finally, the adults are in charge.

Perhaps nowhere in the administration, besides the Oval office, is this change in attitude more acutely felt than in the White House press briefing room.

Since Jen Psaki has been named WH Press Secretary, the daily briefings—the back and forth, the Q&A—has been something it hasn’t been in four years: civil. Now that we're past the less-than-peaceful transition, the press are welcome to ask anything they want. Psaki answers all questions as best she can, and when she doesn’t have an answer she either gets back to the reporter or refers them to someone who does.

It doesn’t come as any surprise she takes her job seriously and handles it as well as she does. Psaki was the traveling press secretary for Obama during the 2008 and 2012 campaigns, and after he won was Deputy Press Secretary, then Deputy Communications Director. She was also spokesperson for the U.S. Department of State.

Psaki and the Biden administration seem to understand the role of a free press as watchdog and eyes of the American people into what their leaders are doing or not doing.

You don’t see Jen Psaki screaming fake news every time a reporter asks a question she or her boss doesn’t’ like. She doesn’t get into screaming matches with reporters. She doesn’t insult them like they’re on the playground. She has a clear understanding of her role in the administration, her responsibilities to the American people and a healthy respect for the history of the position she holds.

We all know there's been a string of unqualified, hostile Trump cronies with none of those qualities that held the job before her. I’m not naming names *cough* McEnany *cough*, *cough* Huckabee *cough*, *cough* Spicer *cough*.

Even though reporters aren't supposed to reveal their sources, you can feel the vibe in the press room: they're all happy to say they heard it from Jen Psaki.

Next question.

The long goodbye

Yesterday was a very good day. At twelve minutes before noon eastern, you could actually feel the country—nay, the world—breathe a sigh of relief we’d been holding in for over four years.

In case you’ve been living under a rock,—in which case there’s a better than average chance you might be a Trump cabinet member—the reason is because decency, compassion, intelligence, experience, diplomacy, scientists, grownups and words spelled correctly are once again calling the White House home.

There were also a lot of predictable songs being played, quoted and sung to celebrate the occasion—all taking aim at a certain orange-faced, tiny-handed, democracy-hating, Stay Puft, unstable genius who was leaving on a jet plane (at taxpayer’s expense) for the last time.

Ding Dong The Witch Is Dead.

Goodbye To You.

Na Na Na Na Hey Hey Goodbye.

Good Riddance. Not the Green Day song: I’m saying good riddance.

And I’m filing this one under better late than never, but almost all the social platforms that gave Cadet Bone Spurs a megaphone to spew his bile and idiocy finally decided to cut off his oxygen by banning him and his hate rhetoric. This isn’t to say he’ll be gone from the public eye entirely, what with that pesky impeachment trial and New York state indictments coming down the pike, but his exposure—at least to the public—has been greatly sidelined.

I’m sure his fragile ego and malignant narcissism are handling it just fine.

Anyway, like almost everyone in the world not wearing a red hat, I’ve had more than enough of him. I refuse to give him anymore mind space.

So as of today, I’m announcing my candidacy for….wait…that’s not it. Oh, right. I’m announcing I’m done posting memes, retweets, cartoons, articles and anything else talking about Trump, even if it’s how awful he is, to any of my social feeds.

Yeah I know. I’m sorry to see them go too.

But really, it’s just redundant. It’s like saying the sky is blue. The ocean is deep. Trump is a festering piece of shit.

Damn it! Old habits die hard. Sorry (not sorry).

Fear not, I’ll still be putting up political posts, maybe even about his grifter family members or android son-in-law. Just no more directly about him. Every time his name gets mentioned, it keeps him in the public conversation and a kitten dies. I don’t think any of us want that.

Besides, there’s a whole new administration to make fun of, although I’m sure for the most part it’ll be the good-hearted, good-natured kind.

And don’t you worry about me backsliding on my promise. It’s as solid as the new year’s resolution I made to lose weight.

For the last twenty years.

The Mooch

I'll just say it. I love the Mooch. But that wasn't always the case.

At first glance, Anthony Scaramucci would seem to be the perfect swamp creature, cut of the same $1000-a-yard cloth as the rest of the scumsuckers who were employed in Cadet Bone Spurs administration. He got his bona fides working for years at Goldman Sachs, who coincidentally issued my Apple credit card. I get 2-3% cash back on every purchase so I have mixed feelings. Plus I grew up with a kid named Steve Goldman. No relation.

I may be getting off track here.

Anyway, Anthony was, as the kids say, money. Just the kind of person the daughter-lovin' traitor-in-chief likes to surround himself with. So for eleven days, Scaramucci was breathing rarified government air at taxpayer's expense as White House Director of Communications.

For all eleven days, I pretty much hated him like I hated anyone who'd support and associate themselves with the unstable genius and his unhinged, self-serving, racist democracy-destroying policies. But the tide started to turn for me on his last day, when he was fired for leveling some choice, well-deserved obscenities at Trump's live-in Secretary of Nazi and human fleshlump Steve Bannon.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Like everyone who's made a quick departure, the Mooch started hitting the talk/news show circuit. Big ships turn slowly, but with each appearance, over time, I began to see his changing opinion about his former boss. It was like watching a flower bloom. It was just that beautiful.

At first, he left the White House but still supported the president.

Then he supported the president, but wished he'd listen to his more experienced advisors.

Let's just skip ahead: now he thinks Trump is a scum-sucking, insane, sex-offending, enemy of all that's good in the world, a gigantic loser and festering piece of shit that needs to go to a Shawshank-like hole cell as soon as humanly possible.

That's an opinion I can get behind. The Mooch has come around, and it's not because it's in vogue. You can tell by watching and listening to him he's seen the light and means what he says. I always try to catch him on Bill Maher or Stephen Colbert. I listen to his podcast. And I imagine with each appearance how pissed his old boss must be.

Plus the man's name is now a universal unit of measure, as in "I have to be out of this apartment in three Scaramucci's!"

So yes, despite the fact he was briefly employed by the worst president in history, his casual dress is Armani and his hair is slicker than an Exxon oil spill, I like the Mooch.

In fact, there's really only one thing that bothers me. Does anyone else see it, or is it just me?

She screams for ice cream

Before I get to the post that answers the question, "Why is there a picture of vanilla ice cream on here?" I should probably address the other burning question you have: "It's been 4 months since his last post. What the hell happened?"

I'll tell you what happened - I didn't feel like doing it. There it is. I know, you're about to remind me of the many posts I put up about how I was going to be more consistent and productive in my postings. How I was going to match, if not beat, Roundseventeen.com post for post. Whatever. I get tired just thinking about it.

The truth of the matter is every time I'd sit down to write a post, all I wanted to talk about was that festering piece of shit in the White House. The unstable genius. The traitor-in-chief. But I figured there were so many smart, incisive, critical, analytical and factual articles and opinions being written about him - and not by the fake news - that I didn't really need to chime in.

So what's gotten me off my big fat bahookie and propelled me back to the keyboard and pictures of vanilla ice cream? My daughter is having her tonsils out tomorrow.

First off all, I think you all need to thank me for the fact you're looking at a picture of ice cream. At first I went to the Google and searched tonsilectomy - I don't recommend it.

My girl is home on Christmas break from college in Iowa (don't get me started). And we just thought what's more fun over Christmas break than having throat surgery, amirite?

Her tonsils have been inflamed for awhile and making her sick at school in Iowa, but her mother and I wanted her to have the procedure done by our ENT surgeon here. Someone we know. Someone we trust. Someone who doesn't use corn-based anesthesia.

So starting tomorrow afternoon, her diet for the next couple of weeks will consist primarily of ice cream, yogurt, chicken broth, ice cream, applesauce, sweet potatoes, mashed potatoes and more ice cream.

The good news is I'm not working for the next couple weeks, so I'll be able to lavish attention on my girl, and nurse her back to health while she's recovering from the surgery.

The bad news is since I'll be home, it means less ice cream for her.

Hair today, gone tomorrow

We've (or should that be weave) all seen it by now. The video of the shithole president's hair trying to make its getaway as he boards Air Farce One (spelling intentional).

First the Emperor has no clothes. Now he has no hair.

Naturally, because the fake president is the festering pile of shit he is, we're not laughing with him. We're laughing at him. No one is uttering the phrase "That's unfortunate." or "I feel bad for him." The most telling thing about the video is how after his combover turns into a flyaway, he stops and waves at the top of the stairs as if nothing has happened.

Which is exactly the way he approaches his presidency (throwing up a little just typing "his presidency").

Here's a partial, very partial, list of the things he's done so far:

Stolen a Supreme Court seat.

Robbed the middle class with a tax reform scam.

Cost millions of voters their healthcare.

Obliterated environmental regulations.

Appointed the "best" most unqualified people he can find to his cabinet.

Got rid of net neutrality.

Reversed a rule oil companies had to report payments to foreign governments.

Cancelled a rule saying financial advisors had to act in the best interest of their clients.

Ended a rule allowing consumers to file class-action lawsuits against banks.

Repealed a rule mandating employers keep records of workplace injuries.

Repealed a ban on lead bullets.

Reduced the size of national monuments and parks.

Repealed documents defining rights of students with disabilities.

Canceled public reporting of visitors to the White House.

So much winning.

And after each deplorable act, he smiles and waves as if nothing happened. As if he had a mandate. Like he won the popular vote. After all, that's what stable genius' do.

The good news is by all indications the midterms will be the day of reckoning for this racist, traitorous idiot. And the decades long list of social and global progress he's decimating will be the same list Democrats use as a checklist to restore them one by one.

So there's reason to be slightly optimistic. Because it's my belief that with a Democrat controlled congress in November, if he isn't already removed from office or locked up by then, at least the idea of Trump finishing out his only term will be a lot less hair raising for the rest of us.

Stuck in the middle with you

It's impressive to see the line of black, armor-shielded Chevy Suburbans (Made in America!) pull up to an event. Even if the person getting out is the so-called president and de facto racist, homophobe, misogynist, sexual predator, pathological liar, traitor and spokesperson for the white nationalist movement. And Satan.

Nonetheless, it is important that we, as Americans who love this country dearly, make sure he's greeted at each and every appearance in a way reflective and deserving of the class, elegance, judgment and maturity he brings to the most powerful office in the world. It's in that spirit I offer several examples of people giving what can only be called the most appropriate salutation for the man he is. If in fact he is a man. I hear things.

Anyway, you don't even have to see him in person to show him the respect he deserves. I give him this greeting every time I see his fat, orange face and whatever the fuck that is on his head on TV, magazine covers or in my nightmares.

Hold 'em firm and hold 'em high. This one's for you Donald.

What have you done lately

Hey, you know what's a really bad thing to do if you're trying to feel good? Compare what you've accomplished in your life to what others have accomplished in theirs.

Always a lose-lose proposition.

I was watching the Kennedy Center Honors the other night. Every year, a select group of artists is chosen for their contribution and lifetime achievement in their field. This year, as in years past, was a stellar group: Dustin Hoffman, David Letterman, Buddy Guy, Natalia Makarova and the surviving members of Led Zeppelin. All were received earlier in the day by President Obama, and during the broadcast each had tributes paid to them by colleagues after a reel showcasing their contributions was shown. To give you a little flavor of the show, here's the entire segment honoring Letterman, and a portion of the one honoring Dustin Hoffman.

I could have a reel of my accomplishments, but it'd look decidedly different. For starters, there'd be very little of my work on it (I'll wait a second while creative directors all over town nod in agreement). Not that I wouldn't be proud to display it, but as I've said many, many times here, it's just advertising. (My friend Janice, who has a fine, Parisian blog of her own, rightfully calls what we do a "legacy of garbage.")

No, my accomplishment montage would have more of a personal than universal touch to it, more of the things that matter to me. There'd be shots of my beautiful and ever so patient wife, my awesome kids and Max, the world's greatest dog. It'd have before and 14-year later after shots of my house. Did I mention Max, the world's greatest dog?

And just so you don't think I'm completely neglecting the industry that's been so good to me, I'd also include pictures of friends I've made in the business who've become real life friends as well. People who've inspired me with their monumental talent, and are constantly giving me something to aspire to. (I'll save their names for a later getting-sloppy-in-my-beer post I'm planning to do on gratitude.)

I realize I may have started this post on a somewhat less than positive note. But just so there's no confusion, I feel pretty good about my accomplishments.

Although dinner at the White House does sound nice.