Ron opines on the elders of the Dimocrat Party.
Port thumb almost back to normal this mornin. Weak, tho, like it’s both anemic and just plain wore-the-hell-out. Pain down to only a cautious reminder when I grab somethin the wrong way or bump into somethin with it.
Swelling almost completely gone from fingers, which are back to about 95% functional, just a li’l stiff. Thumb is about 50%, and reluctant to go thru its full range of designed motion. But no problem puttin on sox or jeans today.
Saw a sign on a minivan by the Elks Club this mornin sayin that it’s better to vote Republican based on the logic that they may not be perfect, but the alternative is insane. Got me to thinkin about people goin insane.
Y’know . . . if you went insane, you probably wouldn’t realize it. I seriously believe that it’s a chief occupational hazard for Hollywood actors, directors, and producers, who spend so much time in pursuing wet dreams and fantasies that their tenuous connection to reality snaps like an old rubber band that’s been left out in the sun and rain too long. Similar with politicians, ‘cept their drug of choice is lust for power and “investigations.”
Apparently running for office, especially the presidency, is addictive. HRC, Biden, even Romney just can’t let it go, as if the spotlights, the rubber-chicken dinners, the repetitive speeches, the travel, the crowds, the Secret Service guys are like the smell of cotton candy, sawdust, and elephant droppings to circus people.
I’m convinced that SanFranNan, Bernie “Let’s become Venezuela” Sanders, Mad Maxie Waters, Dianne Out-of-my-mindStein, Gaffemeister Biden, and several others are irretrievably around the bend, lost in a twilight zone of hate-Trump and just-win-back-both-houses. The problem is, of course, that they can’t see the loss of acuity, can’t face their onrushing mortality.
They’re like performers or athletes who long ago passed their primes but refuse to admit they’ve lost a step, except that here we’re talking about their mental agility, not their boxing footwork or tennis-court quickness or downfield pass-play cuts or post pick’n’rolls.
Hell, I know I’m not nearly as sharp as I was 30 years ago. I’m in the same age group with Nan and Max and Joe and Hil and Bernie . . . and there are days when my ability to recall lyrics from 1950s music is stronger than my ability to remember why the hell I came into the kitchen from the bedroom. By bedtime I usually can’t remember what I had for lunch.
But . . . all of ‘em are runnin for election – AGAIN! Joe Biden is now prepping for the lead role in “The Last Temptation of Slapsy Maxie Rosenbloom.” Pelosi can’t focus on a thought train for more than 20 seconds without a brain fart. Feinstein can’t remember what “due process” means. Sanders forgot all the world history he ever read. Clinton has morphed her brain into a coughing rhododendron with vast conspiracies, vitriol, and vodka.
Biden, the gaffing groper, would be 78 on his inauguration if he were elected in the 2020 genelec. But considering that Trump will be 74, Sanders will be 79, and Clinton is the same age as Trump . . . and Reagan was PotUS until age 78, that’s probably not a big deterrent to them – but it sure’s HELL is to me. Hey, I’m 78, and I NEED a mid-mornin nap most days.
Of course the PotUSy accelerates the aging process faster than ice cream melts in a black Silverado in Dallas with the windows closed in August. Feinstein is 85 now and up for re-election, and Waters is 80 already with no intent to bow out. Both of those are long overdue for their political autopsies, and HRC definitely needs a coroner’s autopsy.
They all need mandatory training sessions in “Siddown and Shaddap!” preferably by a Marine Corps D.I., or maybe Sarah Sanders and Kelly. Joe Biden for PotUS. Good Grief! The classic anti-assassination insurance policy . . . got him to thinkin he’s as qualified as the guy who put him on the ticket. OH – waitaminnit . . . he IS!
Sheeesh . . . it’d be like Dom Deluise in the role of Batman, or Don Knotts as Patton, or Al Franken as a senator.
Oh, well . . . what da hell. Time to feed the furry-faced guys, and another cup of lethal coffee with some strange-lookin pastry I found on the countertop this mornin . . . hauntingly reminiscent of stuff we’d get sometimes in Navy chow halls – amorphous blobs of somethin unrecognizable, sweet, and greasy which we called “fried farts.”