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 race is on

As of noon today, Donald Trump joined the President's Club. I know, I've been nauseous all day too. And as if that weren't enough to make you throw up like Mr. Creosote, this ignorant, unqualified, cesspool of a human being holds the fate of the entire world population in his tiny little baby hands.

Of course I speak of the nuclear codes. Boom.

This means that if someone tweets something he doesn't like, looks at him the wrong way, insults him somehow, his tiny little fuse (which came as a set with his hands) might go off. Then, with absolutely no checks or balances, he could launch a nuclear strike against them.

As if that weren't scary enough, Trump decided to raise the stakes by saying more countries should go nuclear. The more the better. With complete ignorance of policy, protocol, precedent, strategy or capability, Trump encouraged a nuclear arms race with the same tone you'd use to get people to join in a game of tag—except in this game you don't want to be it. This casual, uninformed attitude can't help but beg the question Tom Lehrer is asking in the above video.

Anyway, it's a done deal now. As I write this, Trump is at one of three inaugural balls he's attending tonight with his mail-order bride Melania, enjoying their first dance to the tune of Sinatra's "My Way."

While the rest of us are left with "Gimme Shelter."

Annie was wrong

I don't know if you've heard, but tomorrow is the inauguration of the 45th President of the United States.

Unfortunately, much to the dismay of most of the civilized world, and over half and rising of voters here in America, it seems that in this election cycle, in what can only be described as a freak accident, Donald Trump will be sworn in to the highest, most powerful office in the world.

Let that sink in for a minute.

Tomorrow. That's when it all happens. I'm sorry, I want so much to share her optimism and believe Annie when she says the sun'll come out tomorrow. But I just can't find any reason to. In my heart I believe, as I imagine does every person burdened with conscious and a sense of right and wrong, that the sun won't come out tomorrow.

In fact, just the opposite.

I believe we're going to be plunged into an era of political and dictatorial darkness, where all the progress made over the last fifty or so years—certainly the last eight—will be reversed by the most mentally, intellectually, experientially, temperamentally, judgmentally and morally unqualified person to ever hold the office, along with his band of equally corrupt billionaire friends.

It's a con inside a sham inside a fraud.

The idea by his supporters that this narcissistic, money-grubbing, self-centered, thin-skinned, selfish, crass, tasteless, indecent, disgusting, offensive billionaire has any concern for them is the greatest trick of all time. But then you know what they say:

So while the sun may not come out tomorrow, protesters around the world will. I plan to join them, to be part of the resistance to the ugliness that already is the Trump administration.

With any luck, the next four years that start tomorrow will only seem like a couple months at best. And if we're really lucky, and congress and reasonable Republicans come to their senses, maybe that's all it will be.

That's when the sun'll come out again.

850

Break out the champagne, drop the balloons and cue the DJ. This post right here you're feasting your eyes on is my 850th blogpost. Well, 850th published one.

Like all bloggers, I have a whole slew of drafts and false starts—over 70 of 'em—that, for one reason or another I didn't deem particularly post worthy. They have titles like "The creepy clown" "Jasper is enough" and "I'll have what he's having."

Maybe they were too long. Too short. Too bad. Too late. Too serious. Too light. Too revealing. Too sexy (always a problem). Too similar. Too repetitive. Too likely to get me sued. Too poorly written. I know what you're thinking: "I've been following you for a while. Since when is 'poorly written' a criteria?"

OK smartass. Let's talk about it after I see your 850 posts.

The point is at least I have some kind of filter. Occasionally though, shields are down, my judgement is off and something gets put up here that shouldn't be. But thankfully I have a support system of several other exceptional writer friends that let me know immediately when they think I've crossed a line and should take a post down. Sometimes they're gone before you even know they've been there.

The posts, not the writers.

The other thing is 850 may not be a big number to other, more prolific writers (which would be about all of them). But it's my number and I'm happy about it.

Any writer will tell you filling the page can be challenging. But I have a feeling I'm going to have plenty of things to write about for the next four years. Or with any luck, the next two.

In the meantime, stay tuned for 851. I don't know when it'll be here, but I hear it's going to be worth the wait.

Have the best 19 days ever!

Happy New Year! I think this one is going to be spectacularly great. I mean that. After all, it can't be any worse than 2016, amirite? Truth be told, I think 2017 will be the best year any of us can remember. All nineteen days of it.

I know, I can hear you saying, "But Jeff, aren't there 365 days in a year?" Well sure, in a normal year. But 2017 isn't going to be a normal year. For starters, our dipshit elect is going to be sworn in on January 20th. Which coincidentally, I believe, is the day the world as we know it will end.

We already know, and he confirms it on a daily basis, that he will be the most mentally, emotionally and morally unqualified person ever to hold the office of President of the United States. If anything good is going to happen before he gets us into a nuclear war with China, sinks the stock market, destroys the environment and makes the air unbreathable, it's going to happen in the first nineteen days of the year.

So my recommendation is live it up. Go to Vegas, fly to Paris, pour gas on the credit cards, kiss whoever's there at the moment, drive fast (I mean even faster), eat badly (I mean even worse) and get ready to go out with a big, fat, toothless, trailer-trash smile on your face.

And if for some odd, unexpected reason—a speedy impeachment (please, please, please) or an act of God (this is the prayer to answer)—he's removed from office quickly and we all manage to continue on with our lives, don't even give a second thought to the many acts of complete abandon, ribaldry and debasement you just committed.

Decency, truth or consequences for your actions won't be coming back for at least another fifty years.