Goodbye 2016

So.

2016 is almost over. For the world at large 2016 has been as Helen Mirren said “a big pile of shit”. Wars continue unabated in many parts of the world. The United Kingdom has caused an uproar by voting to exit the European Union. White Nationalists are rising in power in many countries and too many people don’t seem to care. Oh, and the United States voted an unstable, racist jar of orange marmalade in as their new president.

Then there are the deaths in the entertainment world. Many, many deaths. An unrelenting torrent from the Grim Reaper taking our music, our storytellers, our play actors. David Bowie, Prince, George Michael, Glenn Frey, Paul Kantner, Greg Lake, Keith Emerson,  Richard Adams, Harper Lee, Ken Howard, Doris Roberts, Garry Shandling, Carrie Fisher, Debbie Reynolds, Garry Marshall, Michel Cimino, Gene Wilder and Alan fucking Rickman. 2016 took Willy Wonka and Hans Gruber.

And this is only a sampling of those that passed. The real list is ridiculously long.

I can’t say on a personal level that it’s been too bad of a year and I hope that’s the case with anyone who reads this. But as a whole I think we’re all ready to move on. It’s time to say goodbye to 2016.

2016 . . . goodbye and good riddance, get out, hit the bricks, take a hike, beat cheeks, make like a tree and leave, skedaddle, vamoose, be gone, leave my sight and never return, there’s the door, so long, farewell, smell you later, ciao!, auf wiedersehen, au revoir, Sayonara, adios, jet, take off, roll, run, split, scoot, make tracks, hit the road, head east, skate, bounce, take a long walk off a short pier, turn the corner, depart, cut out, move off, sally forth, set sail, shove off, pack it up, vacate the premises, take your leave, disembark, make it so, reverse engines, follow the yellow brick road, toodle loo, let her rip tater chip and last but not least, get the fuck out!

When Cats take over the World

My cat’s name is Wild Colleen and she’s not much of a talker except at feeding time and then she repeats “Give me food, give me food, give me food”. My previous cat’s name was Phantom and he was a chatterbox. Every morning he wanted to talk about philosophy, why mac and cheese is a better side dish than cole slaw, how the Clemson Tigers can improve their running game, whatever.

You can imagine my surprise then this morning when Colleen comes in the bathroom jabbering away. I wasn’t even really awake yet but it had something to do with the volatility in the world financial markets due to the resignation of the Italian prime minister, the election of Donald Trump and the UK leaving the European Union. My response was something like “Huh? I already fed you.”

My indifference didn’t stop her though. She doesn’t trust the stability of the dollar, yen or euro and believes we should be going to a Little Friskies based economy. I thought she was joking and responded with “No you can’t have treats, you just ate.”

I was shocked when she showed me the email she had sent to the International Monetary Fund and the World Bank with her plan to replace all current currency with kibble. I spit out my toothpaste when she showed me their response asking for a detailed power point presentation of her plan including time tables for implementation, proposed interest rates for loans and would the substitution of cat nip be okay for some of the poorer countries. Again my response was inappropriate, “You’re getting fur all over my iPad.”

So now my evening of quiet reflection and Law and Order re-runs is being replaced with designing charts and tables on how the world economy can function with the payment of dry cat food for goods and services. Does anyone know how many pieces of Purina Cat Chow equals 1 ruble? This is going to take forever.

Negative Nancy Runs for Office

We only have a week before the national nightmare of this election cycle will be over. I should be breathing easier. Seven short days and we get at least a few months before the 2020 cycle begins. And yet I can’t relax. I’m so tired, like my blood has been replaced by Gummi bears.

I was writing a lot about the candidates during the primaries but I got lost in the swamp of stupidity and arrogance. It took me a long time to climb my way back out into the sunlight. And yet the sun isn’t as bright as it should be. Every day I’m battered by commercials on radio and television about this candidate or the other one. And it’s not just the presidential race, its state campaigns.

“Bill Fenstermacher eats pickles in bed!”

“Jane Woebegone makes cat videos in her attic!”

“Clancy Chigger voted against new hats for railroad conductors!”

“Bill Fenstermacher used to work as a carnival freak called ‘Billy the Goat Boy’!”

“Diane Loosescrew wants to tax your toe nail clippings!”

“Jane Woebegone shops at Target with your tax payer money!”

“Clancy Chigger knows what you need . . . because he’s a stalker!”

“Diane Loosescrew has an ingrown nose hair. She’ll never survive a full term!”

All day, every day, it’s a bloodbath of negativity splashed across my face. I grab a towel to wipe it away but it smears like melted chocolate until my whole head is covered in electoral slime.

“Larry Bungle sold crystal meth to panda bears!”

“Francine Fuss wants to give our jobs to migrant ornithologists!”

“Larry Bungle and his brother Harry share 1 pair of socks!”

“Francine Fuss feels fairly fine with festering fish fouling fresh water!”

Make it stop! It sticks to my skin and won’t wash off. All the yelling and name calling and lies and acting . . .

“Did you know Harold Megawealthyman bought his position as county lunatic?”

“Sarah Hatespeople wants to force us all to love pumpkin spice!”

Voter down! Voter down! I need platforms and policy papers. I need voting records and plans for strengthening infrastructure. Stop the insults! Stop lying! Stop with the fear-mongering! Dorothy? Dorothy, where’s Toto? We have to get home! The flying monkeys are coming, click your heels together!!!

Chuck Woolery on Line 3

I’ve been listening to ESPN radio all day at work so I hear the same commercials over and over again in between show segments. A new one popped up last week starring none other than Chuck “I used to be Famous” Woolery. You know you have a small advertising budget when you’re doing a radio spot, not TV, and the best voice guy you can afford is a) a game show host and b) hasn’t been popular in 20 years.

“We need a recognizable voice for our commercial. Who can we get?”

“An actor?”

“No, too expensive.”

“A singer?”

“They cost more than actors.”

“A game show host?”

“That’s it. Get me Wink Martindale.”

“Already tried, he turned us down.”

“Shit! All right, call Woolery.”

“He’s been in the lobby for a week looking for work.”

The product is Australian Dream Back Pain Cream. Not making that up, it’s an actual product for sale everywhere currency is exchanged for goods. My favorite part of the commercial is after the Chuckster names the product, his next words are “It’s real medicine.”

You hear that? Those are alarm bells. Those are Klaxons blaring, warning you about this product. When you see a commercial for cough syrup, medicated powder, Viagra, cholesterol meds, whatever, at no point do they ever say the words “its real medicine!”

If you have to tell me that it’s legitimate, you’ve actually told me it’s not.

“Hi, I’m Dr. Smith and I’ll be doing your surgery today. These are real surgical instruments!”

“I’m Mary, your nurse, I’m here to check your blood pressure. I have a license! I know what I’m doing!

“Hello, my name is Roger and I’ll be doing your taxes. I can count!”

“This is Captain Thomas and I’ll be your pilot today. I know what all these buttons do!”

Do all Australians dream of medicated ointment? Is the manufacturing of unguents a large part of the Aussie GNP?

“Oy, pass me another tube of non-greasy, anti-fungal, extra strength formula elbow joint cream.”

All these years my picture of Australia was blue water, beautiful women, kangaroos and Crocodile Dundee. It turns out, their providing employment for washed-up American emcees and curing our aches and pains with clean, no odor balm with a capricious rhyming name. They should have gotten Paul Hogan to do the commercial though.

“You call that a tube of arthritis cream? This is a tube of arthritis cream.”

Sarah, Is that You?

I’m a big fan of the singer Sarah McLachlan so I follow her official Facebook page where she posts song links, pictures and sometimes inspirational quotes. Last evening I found the quote she posted to be very meaningful so I liked it and then shared it. As I continued perusing FB, maybe 20 minutes later, I get a notification that I’ve received a friend request from Sarah McLachlan.

Hmmm.

That’s odd.

Internationally famous singer/songwriter Sarah McLachlan wants to be friends on FB with me, who, she’s not only never met, but has never interacted with in her life. Literally doesn’t know I exist. If you said my name to her she would tilt her head like a dog who wonders why the cat is eating his food.

Hmmm.

I went to the page and there were 2 pictures of Sarah, both taken directly from her website or FB fan page. And nothing else.

There was no information, no other pictures, no posts and no friends.

How stupid does someone think I am? I mean this is just insulting. I get friend requests all the time from obviously fake FB accounts but they usually have dozens of “friends”, a couple of pictures, maybe an innocuous post or two. And most importantly none were ever from someone who has started their own summer music festival.

I got a request once from a guy in an eastern European country. The entire page was in his own language and all his “friends” were eastern European, but he did not have 7 Billboard top 100 songs.

Being a man, I used to get a lot of requests from women in bikinis or lingerie advertising their web sites. But I’ve never gotten one from a woman who has appeared on David Letterman, the Tonight Show, SNL and has her own ASPCA commercial.

I don’t know who really sent the friend request or what their purpose was but I didn’t fall for it.

Now, having said that, if Sarah McLachlan created a new page just to be friends with me on FB and I rejected the friend request, then I’m probably out of the fan club.

Bucket List, Schmucket List

Many people talk about making bucket lists, things they want to do before they die. Some also refer to it as “living life to its fullest”. The problem is everyone’s list is kind of the same:

1. go skydiving

2. run a marathon

3. climb a mountain

4. kill a drifter with a gardening trowel

Always the same. Booooooring. Let’s try and liven those lists up. Here are some suggestions to make your bucket list original:

1. wrestle a badger for a piece of string cheese

2. replace your finger nails with thin slivers of Formica

3. eat only watermelon for a month

4. ride cross country with a long-haul trucker named Spider

5. escape with your life from the cab of an 18-wheeler driven by a man named Spider

6. give testimony against Spider in open court

7. weave baskets from your nose hair

8. win a Pulitzer Prize then denounce your life’s work as derivative and obfuscatory

9. fly first class, sitting in your seat naked and clipping your toenails

10. go into witness protection once Spider is released from his supermax prison

11. eat a T-bone steak covered in potato chips, rutabaga and molasses

12. shove 27 nickels in your ears

13. take a photo of your thumb every day for a year and then exhibit the pictures at a local art gallery

14. paint your entire house red, then have a dinner party and greet your guests with the phrase “Welcome to hell.”

15. kill Spider with a Cuisinart blade when he finds you after being released from prison

These are just a few of the things you can do to make completing your bucket list worthy of a story on a TV news show or the subject of one of those annoying internet lists that make you click “next” a thousand times to find out what that one actor from that TV show you used to watch looks like now only to find out he isn’t part of the list anyway and that fucking website tricked you into wasting 26 minutes of your life.

Now get out there and have fun!

A Web of Ridiculousness

I’m sharing my porch with a spider. He’s one of those that spin a web at night and when the sun comes up he’s gone.

I don’t like spiders. I admit they make me scream like a man with his junk caught in a bear trap that’s in a shark’s jaw being sat on by the 600 pound ghost of Haystacks Calhoun.

This spider is spinning his web off my porch roof so it’s up high enough that I can walk by and not get caught in it. The other day though I noticed the web was getting bigger. A few strands of silk were getting close to head height for me so we had to have a talk.

Me: I notice the web is expanding. We talked about this size issue before.

Spider: Sorry but me and the missus just had another brood of kids. I need to catch more food.

Me: How many kids do you have?

Spider: 670 at last count.

Me: They don’t live nearby do they?

Spider: God no! I’d never get any peace if the old lady and the kids were living with me. No, I have them set up across the street in your neighbor’s drainage spout. The rent’s a little high but we need the space.

Me: You pay rent?

Spider: Oh yeah. All the spouting in the area is controlled by the centipede family. Man those things creep me out.

Me: Yeah . . . me too. Anyway, remember our deal. The web stays high enough that I don’t run into any of it and end up dancing around the yard like a loon trying to get it off of me.

Spider: Right, right. I’m trying to only widen it but I had to spin a support beam down farther. There’s still clearance.

Me: It’s close though.

Spider: I’ll watch it. By the way, my wife really likes the way your living room is decorated.

Me: How . . . how would she know . . . ?

Spider: The window! She looked through the window!

Me: Is she in my living room right now?

Spider: No, no!

Me: Ahhhh!

Spider: Margaret! Run!

Oh yeah, that web is coming down soon.

Suppertime Shenanigans

I bought some salmon steaks at the grocery store last week. I like salmon a lot but rarely buy it because it’s expensive and I’m cheap; a combination that’s like matter and anti-matter or David Hasselhoff and music.

While at work yesterday I decided to make one of the filets for supper so I got on my ipad and searched for a recipe. I found one that sounded good and was simple, saved the page and went back to work.

When I got home before I could make supper I had to do dishes. They were everywhere; in the sink, on the stove, on the counter. It looked like one of my weekly recreations of Mel’s Diner from the old TV show Alice where I dress the cat up like Flo and try to get her to meow so it sounds like “Kiss my grits”. The scratches on my face and neck indicate she doesn’t enjoy this diversion as much as I do.

With a clean kitchen I thawed out one of my salmon filets and then pulled up the web page with the recipe on. I received this message:

Woops! This page is down for maintenance

What? The one recipe I chose out of dozens, just a few hours ago, and now I can’t get to the page?

The cat laughed at me. The salmon steak chuckled. David Hasselhoff guffawed from his throne made of money in his mansion made of German gold records.

So I had to search for another recipe. The first one required me to wrestle my fresh salmon from the claws of a bear . . . so . . . let’s skip that one. Hmm, this one asks for 33 different spices including oil of sausage casings and shavings from a roasted persimmon. Nah. Oh, here’s a good one. Wait, step 3 is a sacrifice to Molech.

I gave up and dug out some recipes I keep in a folder on a bookshelf. There I found a quick, easy marinade. I mixed it up, marinated the salmon and then grilled it. Delicious. David Hasselhoff called to ask for a bite.

Of course, now my sink has dishes in it again. Time for another re-enactment. Here kitty, kitty.

TP for the Q of E

After a bike ride on the trail the other day I used a port-a-potty at the edge of the parking lot. There were two identical plastic enclosures on the wall. One held toilet paper, the other you couldn’t see what was inside and it had a padlock on it with a message “Do Not Remove”. Made me wonder what exactly was in the plastic case. Is this where they keep the “good” toilet paper? You know, like when you were a kid and Mom always had the “good” china and silverware you only used on Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Imagine the Queen of England visiting our area and during a tour of the local farmland and hoi polloi, nature calls to her. She stops in at the trail station and one of her retinue announces

“The Queen requires to drop a deuce. Please issue your finest papier toilette.”

Some maintenance man named Butch with a six day growth of beard and wearing a t-shirt stained with wing sauce steps forward.

“Uh, yessir. Give me, uh, one minute.”

Butch pulls a flap of skin away from his left ear and slips out a small key made of cut crystal. He steps into the port-a-potty, opens the padlock and lifts out a roll of 34-ply toilet paper flecked with specks of gold. He sits the roll on a shelf. It begins playing a Debussy piano concerto. The tube inside, made of wood taken from the limb of a 1000 year old tree in the Schwarzwald of Baden-Wurttemberg, sprays the area with jasmine scented mist.

Also in the container is a hermetically sealed jar containing butterflies, the laughter of small children and light captured from supernova SN 1006. Butch removes the lid and the portable bathroom becomes incandescent and pastoral. A privy fit for royalty.

Then again, the plastic box might just contain some back-up rolls of Joe’s 1-Ply Shitter Paper. 

Why am I Surrounded by Idiots?

Case #1  I had gone to a Royal Farms store in Ocean City Maryland to pick up an out of state newspaper, Fruit Stripe gum and bailing twine. I also thumbed through the latest issue of “Independently Wealthy Long-Legged Nordic Women Looking for Older Men: Eastern Shore Edition” but decided not to spend the money. When I left I needed to walk across the parking lot to get to my SUV. There was a pick-up truck parked next to me with his headlights on and motor running, but he hadn’t moved yet.

I had a feeling he was going to pull out at any moment because he was holding up a sign that read “I’m going to pull out at any moment!” I hesitated. He still didn’t move so I began walking toward my vehicle. He waits until I’m in the middle of the lot before driving forward and cutting in front of me, almost running me over.

Case #2  I stopped at a yard sale last Friday. The house was at the side of a busy road but the shoulder was wide enough to set up a traveling carnival on. I checked out the yard sale, then played a few games of Pop-a-Shot, rode the Himalaya and ate some cotton candy. When I was done I got back in my SUV.

I started the engine but didn’t pull away because I was inputting an address into my GPS. A woman in a mini-van pulls in front of me. She proceeds to pull forward, back up, pull forward, back up, pull forward, back up, pull forward, back up . . . WHAT ARE YOU DOING? PARK THE DAMN VAN! When she is finally parked, she has backed up so close to my vehicle that now I have to back up to pull out into traffic. Then when I pull out, she chooses that precise moment to fling her door open so I almost clip her van door off.

Case #3  I went to a local supermarket which I won’t name. I’ll just say the name sounds like “wise” but is spelled Weis. I needed taco shells, maple syrup and more bailing twine. After finding my items I walked to the check-out lines. There were three registers with lights on but no one there to ring me up. I discovered why when I saw a gaggle (is “gaggle” correct, or is it a “pack”, a “shitpile” or perhaps an “annoyance” of cashiers?) of cashiers standing around talking. I stood still for a moment. One of them caught sight of me and looked up. She had a puzzled expression on her face. “Why is there someone with merchandise in their hands standing at my register? Do I have gum in my mouth or am I chewing on my tongue? Huh, I just got hit by a box of taco shells.”

She eventually turned back to the conversation with her co-workers that I’m hoping was about when they thought they would be fired for being incompetent. I had the twine wrapped around my fists ready to choke all three of them, but instead I went to the only line with someone working and sighed heavily.

Why am I surrounded by idiots?

Who You Got?

Donald Trump, a cross between a russet potato and a Clementine, seems to be the likely republican candidate for president. Ted “Haters Gonna Hate” Cruz and John “Someone please vote for me” Kasich are still hanging around, even conspiring to form an unholy alliance predicted by Nostradamus.

On the democratic side Hillary Clinton, playing the woman card by being an actual woman, is inching closer to her party’s nomination with big wins in Pennsylvania, Delaware and Maryland last Tuesday. Bernie Sanders and his dream of “Crazy Bernie’s Discount America: everything must go and it’s FREE!” is still alive, but is taking on water like a fishing boat in a storm.

In the middle of all this are the American people: Divided, angry, and disorganized. “Who do we vote for?” we ask ourselves. Should we vote for the most heinous man walking the planet or Donald Trump? John Kasich? Nah, no one’s asking that.

Maybe we should vote for the first female president in American history? How about the first president that sounds like Larry David? (I don’t think the founding fathers saw that one coming)

In November 2016 we will vote for someone. When it’s all over some Americans will be happy, some will be disappointed. Many will shrug their shoulders and mumble into their Fruit Loops. Others will still be watching the USA network marathon of NCIS and will have forgotten to vote.

In January of 2017 a new president will be sworn in. It may be a woman, it may be a man, or it may be whatever Ted Cruz is. One thing is certain: whoever we elect is well and truly fucked.

This is Where We Are

What to make of this election cycle. Casaba melon in a bad toupee Donald Trump is still the Republican front runner.

Reptilian car salesman Ted Cruz is in second, staying just close enough to give people a reason to concoct Machiavellian scenarios to blow up the Republican convention.

John Kasich is also still participating.

On the Democratic side Hillary’s pant suits have gained sentience and are actually campaigning for her in various states. A sky blue ensemble did an interview on CNN the other day. Don Lemon was 45 minutes into it before he realized he was talking to a JC Penney summer special.

Everyone’s grandpa who gives out ribbon candy at Halloween, Bernie Sanders, continues his turns so far left NASCAR drivers won’t follow him. He spouts his goals with belief and vehemence but gives little information on how he’s going to accomplish them.

What does it all mean?

On the Democratic side, Hillary is the insider front-runner with shady dealings in her past, a machine behind her pushing her forward and the only candidate with both domestic and foreign policy experience.

Bernie has ideas that sound wonderful: free college tuition, free healthcare, etc. The only way to pay for it all is tax increases. So Bernie wants to tax the rich, but the rich don’t like to be taxed. That’s how they stay rich. Also many policy experts say his ideas won’t bring in enough revenue to cover his plans.

Backers of both candidates, instead of coming together, are sniping at one another. Bernie supporters are saying if Hillary wins the nomination they won’t vote for her. The American voter: an infant who lost their lolly.

As for the Republicans, Donald Trump is a hateful, bigoted, grand-standing egomaniac whose election to president could destroy the country.

Ted Cruz may be even worse.

Republican voters don’t know what to do. The racist wing of the party is good with Trump and all of his horseshit because it matches their own horseshit world view. The Evangelical wing of the party is leaning to Cruz even though they feel he may be the Devil incarnate. There are indications the convention could be a madhouse.

With all these candidates’ limitations and foibles, with the electorate dissatisfied, disenchanted and drained from a process that is too long, with the primary season in chaos, could John Kasich become president?

No.

Lolla-Presidential Candidate-Palooza

I’m so bored with the election bullshit I decided to cast the candidates as members of a band. Just go with me on this one. The alternative is thinking about Trump as president.

Ladies and gentlemen welcome to Lolla-presidential candidate-palooza. We have 6 great bands performing for you tonight. Let’s meet them before we start the festivities:

It’s Marco Rubio, new lead singer for En Fuego, a Latino boy band that sings about love, girls and defunding Planned Parenthood.

Please welcome Donald Trump, lead vocals for Build the Wall, a neo-Nazi grindcore band with lyrics like “We’re great! We’re great! Build the Wall! Exterminate!”

And now it’s Ted Cruz playing tambourine and singing back-up for Christian soft-rock combo Aaron, Joseph, Noah and Isaac. They play mainly VFW halls and birthday parties for conservative fringe groups run by millionaire donors.

John Kasich is next playing stand-up bass in a fifties revival group called Johnny Bland and the Forgettables. Their big hit is “I Can’t Quit the Primary”.

Let’s welcome Bernie Sanders to the stage harmonizing hits from the 40s with his cousins Ernie and Fernie. They perform as Mazel Tov!, mostly in kosher delis and at the occasional bris.

Our last performer is Hillary Clinton singing the hits of Nancy Sinatra from her Las Vegas show with her back-up band the Benghazi Four (formerly known as the Whitewater Trio).

Now to open the show please welcome Martin O’Malley, Chris Christie, Bobby Jindal, Mike Huckabee, Ben Carson, Lincoln Chaffee, Lindsey Graham, Carly Fiorina and Jim Webb as the Loserville Chorus performing their number 1 hit, “What Were We Thinking?”

And then There Were 3 . . . or 5

Let’s check on the Republican presidential race after 3 primaries:

Jeb! Has become Jeb L

Carly Fiorina has been downsized and is currently using an Acer notebook to forward cat videos to the sad people who donated money to her campaign.

Chris Christie is at the local Golden Corral drowning his sorrows in beef gravy.

John Kasich is stubbornly remaining in the race. He’s running on one leg, dragging the second behind him like a dead tree limb and carrying a bag of second graders on his back, but he’s still there.

Ben Carson is also for some reason sticking around. He hasn’t polled above 7% in any primary, he doesn’t do well in the debates and he has terrible ideas. The old saying is 2 out of 3 ain’t bad. 0 out of 3 means it’s time to pack up your shit and go home.

Oh, and Jim Webb dropped out. Not much to say about that since no one knew Jim Webb was running. No real grass roots movement for ol’ Jim. More like a patch of weeds forcing its way up between the cracks of a broken sidewalk. The voters shot it with weed killer and he’s gone.

The big three remain: Donald Trump, Ted Cruz and Marco Rubio. It’s quite a choice the voters have. Cast your ballot either for a talking orangutan, an oil stain on the garage floor or Ricky Ricardo. Sorry but the last Republican debate I just kept waiting for Rubio to look at Trump and yell, “Lucy! You got some splaining to do!” That would have been sweet.

Good luck voters, there are no winners here.

WTF New Hampshire?

New Hampshire, WTF?

38% of the republican votes in your primary went to vile mound of human excrement in a suit, Donald Trump. New Hampshire's motto has apparently changed from "Live free or Die" to "Live Free as long as you're a white male and if you're anyone else then die" Trump celebrated his victory by throwing chunks of granite at the press while yelling "I love New Trumpshire!"

Voting for a radish would have been a better use of your voting privilege. I know you people run around drunk on maple syrup all day, but come on, this election shit is serious. This isn’t an Adam Sandler movie. That isn’t Sandler in a cheap wig with Kevin James and David Spade standing next to him on the debate stage. You aren’t extras applying for a SAG card. You’re supposed to be voting for who you want to be president, not whether they should build a water treatment plant on Earl’s turnip field.

I really expected better of you New Hampshire. Oh well, At least you got Chris Christie and Carly Fiorina to drop out and stop pestering us with their nonsense. The next debate may resemble a real debate and not open mic night at the Ha Ha Hut.

Thinning the Herd

We all saw this day coming. The bunting was taken down in the middle of the night before all the votes were counted. The doe-eyed, idealistic, young volunteers were sent on their way with a pat on the head and a handful of Applebee’s coupons. The spouses have been dressed in their finest “it’s over” outfits, the concession suits have been pulled from their suitcases. Yes, as a nation we need to take a deep breath of Iowa air filled with animal fecal matter and accept that we’ve lost 2 more.

Martin O’Malley from the democratic side and Mike Huckabee from the republican side.

Two presidential candidates no one ever gave a damn about have finally heard our mumbles of apathy.

This is Martin’s first run at the presidency so I’m sure it will be tougher on him, that fact that he wasted so much money and time and got through to basically nobody. And only getting 8 out of 1400 votes cast has got to be like Bernie Sanders twisting a pair of pliers on his nut sack.

For Huckabee? Well, he’s an old hand at this. This is presidential campaign number 2 that’s caught on fire like a stack of old rubber tires and burned the night away, leaving behind only the acrid, oily smell of condescension and bigotry.

These men will now be gone from the campaign trail and we will not miss them. We won’t miss Martin’s lack of personality or coherent message. We won’t miss him not having a valid reason for running for president in a season that has a Clinton and grass roots favorite Bernie Sanders as opponents. We won’t miss the twinkle in Mike Huckabee’s eyes that was him saying “Listen to me, I’m smarter than you.” We won’t miss his unwavering support of Josh Duggar who molested his sisters, cheated on his wife and apparently liked having sex so rough even hookers didn’t want his money. Money made from working at the Family Research Council. Mike Huckabee supports that.

Goodbye to two more of the rogue’s gallery of idiots who thought they could be president. We didn’t want you, we don’t need you, we’re not sorry you’re gone.

Who’s next? I’m looking at you Chris Christie, Jeb Bush, Carly Fiorina and Rick Santorum. Rick Santorum? Are you serious? He’s another nut sack for another day.

John Kasich in No Man's Land

Did you know John Kasich is still in the presidential race?

Did you know John Kasich was in the race at all?

Do you know who John Kasich is?

These and more important questions will be answered in today’s edition of “Why are you running for president?”

John Kasich is the governor of Ohio. He’s currently polling at 6% for the presidential race. That’s out of 100. So 94% of decided voters have rejected John Kasich but he’s OK with that because of another number. 40% of independent voters in New Hampshire haven’t made up their mind yet. John apparently believes he’s going to convince all 40% to vote for him which is what it will take for him to overtake racist lump of mashed potatoes Donald Trump.

Those independent voters aren’t as independent as they want you to think they are. They say “I don’t know who to vote for yet”, but my bet is the majority have made up their mind and it will be for one of the front-runners. To be contrary and convince their neighbors they’re the last of a dying breed, they’ll harrumph and pettifog until Election Day and then cast their ballot for Trump or pizza box grease spot Ted Cruz.

Once again I believe you need name recognition before you run for president and Kasich doesn’t have it. At this point Trump has blared his vile rhetoric like a foghorn through a stack of Marshall amps for months. Ted Cruz has slithered into the hearts and minds of people who are dead inside and infested their thinking like mad cow disease to the tune of double digit support. Ben Carson has put a fine edge on his dullness by spewing batshit crazy slime trails of wisdom on social media that has somehow vaulted him into a distant 3rd.

And then there’s everyone else which includes John Kasich. Sorry guvnor, you’ve been rejected and are now yet another vain man wasting time and money on a pipe dream.

The Campaign of Martin O’Malley: Move Along, Nothing to See Here

Democratic presidential candidate Martin O’Malley recently held an “event” in Iowa where one person showed up. They chatted for a while and even with one-on-one attention he still couldn’t convince the gentleman to vote for him. I imagine it went something like this:

O’Malley: Hey, thank you for coming out in this bad weather.

Voter: I’m not voting for you.

O’Malley: Uh, ok . . .

Voter: I’m here ‘cause ya got muffins.

O’Malley: Muffins?

Voter: I like muffins. Blueberry.

O’Malley: All right.

Voter: What’s your name again?

O’Malley: Martin O’Malley.

Voter: Could you pass the butter Marty? I like butter on my muffins.

O’Malley: Sure.

Voter: The wife won’t let me have butter.

O’Malley: Here you go.

Voter: You got any marmalade?

O’Malley: Security!

I knew the day that O’Malley announced his candidacy that this is where we would end up. There are only a handful of politicians who are national names and O’Malley isn’t one of them. I haven’t even seen one person who lived in Maryland when he was governor who says they would vote for him. Again I ask, where does the hubris of these men come from? How much money that could have gone to a charitable use has been wasted because of Martin O’Malley’s ego?

I didn’t watch any of the debates but I’ve heard people say O’Malley acquitted himself nicely at times. But at this stage that’s not enough to defeat the comedy team of Hillary and Bernie. Or Bernie and Hillary. The billing seems to change on a daily basis. Martin O’Malley’s not even the opening act. He’s the guy who performs for free on the boardwalk hoping a few voters will throw a dollar in his hat after his treatise on immigration, and then stick around for his gun control closer.

I read that in the last debate a few days ago there was a question that both Bernie and Hillary were allowed to fully answer but before O’Malley could answer NBC cut to a commercial. They forgot he was part of the debate.

Director: Annnnnd . . . go to commercial.

Assistant: What about the other guy’s answer?

Director: What other guy?

Assistant: The tall one on stage behind a podium.

Director: How did he get on stage? Security!

Assistant: I think he’s running . . .

Director: He can run but he can’t hide.

Assistant: Never mind . . .

He’s on a stage and no one can see him. He speaks into a microphone but no one can hear his voice. This is Martin O’Malley’s candidacy.

Goodbye George Pataki

Over the past few weeks I took a break from the presidential candidates to enjoy my Christmas and New Year celebrations. Now that the bunting has all been taken down, the empty boxes have been given to the toddlers and cats and restaurant gift cards burned through so we could eat something besides turkey, mashed potatoes and rum balls, its back to normal life.

Sadly it seems the presidential campaigns are still going on and not much has changed. It’s the same lying, bloviating and unartful bullshit. And that’s just Donald Trump. Who knows what the other candidates are doing. Seriously, who knows? The news doesn’t cover anyone else. If Ted Cruz locked himself in a missile silo in North Dakota and declared himself Grand Poobah of the Black Hills we wouldn’t know because the networks would be covering Trump snipping his toe nails before bed.

We lost another candidate recently. George Pataki killed his campaign. Well, voter apathy killed his campaign. The fact that almost no one knew he was running killed his chances. Supposedly he had a team working for him but no one has come forward to admit to it. There was an announcement made when he chose to run, reportedly, but I doubt it. I mean I saw the press conference when Lincoln “Hello Rhode Island” Chaffee announced he was running but I didn’t see a video, photo or daguerreotype of Pataki’s announcement.

 I think in George’s mind he was running for President, but he forgot to tell everyone else. The speeches he allegedly gave? I believe he was in his basement surrounded by his grandchildren’s stuffed animals, standing on an overturned laundry basket laying out his plan for immigration reform. I hear the elephant and Elmo walked out to go see Carly Fiorina in her pantry discussing gun control to cans of peas and corn.

George is another in a too-long line of men wasting time and money on a dream they had no chance of attaining. None of these failed campaigns are surprises. I don’t understand the folly of these men. Are their egos so massive they can’t see the Petrified Forest for America’s dismissal of their electability? Most of them have committees to explore whether running is viable. What do these committees say to them? Don’t any of them have the courage to tell the truth?

“Yeah, George, see it’s like this. Almost no one, and I mean NO ONE, knows who you are. And those that do . . . won’t vote for you. So . . . Murray and I are going to take off, grab a bite to eat, maybe catch a movie before polishing up the resumes. These past few days have been fun, and, good luck not running for President.”

Goodbye George Pataki, we hardly knew you. And apparently we didn’t want to.