This may be too serious a subject for a humor column, but I think — stress think — there’s a presidential campaign going on here, with here being the United States, or Mars, depending on your vantage point. I for one favor the latter, wishing the whole thing were in fact on Mars, a better venue for weird life forms.
Every morning I check my TV or phone and see one of two aliens, a colorful Democrat most in my state (California) think is smart and professional, or a bloated bully those same state dwellers think is the second coming of Satan. The Democrats behind the colorful Democrat say that electing the bloated bully again would be ending life as we know it, while the Republicans who back Satan say their man has a better handle on Mars and would keep untoward non-Martian creatures (and their pets) from taking over the planet.
She whispers to me that he’s the only bully who truly understands America, which confuses me since I thought we were on Mars.
With all this nasty growling it’s a wonder I make it to work every morning, a workplace, I might add, where I get to hear more about both the colorful Democrat and the bloated bully, since this is the season in which little else is on anyone’s mind. Some of my colleagues have volunteered to work for the CD (let’s call her that to save keystrokes), but my assistant shuts up because she’s a BB fan. She whispers to me that he’s the only bully who truly understands America, which confuses me since I thought we were on Mars. Only bullies understand that the universe is in peril, or so she says.
I take no sides.
I am apolitical, which my CD friends believe is little better than a worm. I try to calm them down by saying CD has already won California, her state after all. But do they listen? No. I am still a worm.
Why not teach people about the worst American history has to offer instead of changing names and wrecking access to nostalgia?
Being a peace-loving sort of guy, what I can’t take in all this is the volume. Everyone seems to be screaming at all times. It’s as if the latest pandemic had yelling as its principal symptom, both cities and countryside awash with yellers. I had parents who disagreed fiercely over Ronald Reagan but, uninfected, they never took to yelling.
I’ve talked to my teen daughter Rebecca about all this, but she just shrugs. She wants these star wars over ASAP. It’s a crazy clown, BB, pitted against a nothing-special CD. Admittedly, Rebecca is too busy gathering online supporters for her I Hate Taylor Swift movement to pay much attention to presidential politics on Mars. Why does she hate Taylor Swift? Too self-important, something BB has been guilty of since age eight.
I’ll be honest: I would like to like CD, but she seems to me bland and too much a stepchild of all things woke, a state of mind that sometimes drives me nuts. I mean, I grew up on Uncle Ben’s rice and raising hell for my team, the Cleveland Indians, now the, um, Guardians. Really. Not that I like bloated bullies, but sometimes force-feeding change gets on my nerves. Why not teach people about the worst American history has to offer instead of changing names and wrecking access to nostalgia? CD’s people tell me it’s all for the best, especially when faced with the prospect of another four years run by an FB, fascist bully. Again, too much volume for my taste.
So, what’s my plan come November?
Probably chill with Rebecca, bashing Trailer Snitch (blame my daughter) for entertainment,
Or stare up at Jupiter, where I’m thinking of moving as soon as my bike notches an extra gear.
I certainly won’t be glued to my TV or phone. Not this time around.
God forbid I catch the yelling pandemic.
