Dementia isn’t funny. Getting old is no joke. Poking fun at another person’s mental or physical incapacity, or leveling derision at it, is, in a word, inhumane.
But y’know, Tim Conway’s portrayal of Duane Toddleberry, aka “The Oldest Man,” was hilarious for a reason — in order to remain sane, we have to laugh in the face of a fate that (if we’re lucky) awaits us all. And when we see manifest nonsense passed off as normal — say, a man asking us to accept his neurotic delusion that he’s a woman — that’s fair game for criticism, because we’re compelled to be truthful.
The “presidential debate” last night was catastrophic for the current occupant of the Oval Office. Ashen, mouth agape, incoherent and confused throughout, apparently he couldn’t be administered enough jack-up juice to keep him going even for 90 minutes.
This was the throwdown that he and his campaign had been begging for. It was to be the moment that’d propel him to another four years in the Oval Office.
And it was an unmitigated disaster.
Four more years? Hell, he couldn’t go an hour and a half. I doubt he’ll make it to November.
“He’s not equipped to be president,” Trump said after one of his opponent’s many gaffes. “You know it and I know it.”
This inconsequential shell of a man deserves every bit of derision and ridicule he gets. He put himself in this position — or allowed himself to be put in this position — and so we should neither have sympathy nor give quarter.
He, his misbegotten cabal, and every liberal assclown who voted for him have done irreparable harm to America. Our attacks on him, and them, should be merciless.
“I really don’t know what he said at the end of that sentence. I don’t think he knows what he said, either.”
Trump, during last night’s presidential debate
This morning, predictably, the news was full of calls for the incumbent and presumptive Democrat nominee to step aside. That’s nothing new, of course, but now there’s no way for him to exit with even a shred of manufactured dignity. Last night’s embarrassing performance sunk that ship.
Am I the only one wondering if he was set up to fail? Anyone with eyes and a functioning brain saw this debate debacle coming. Surely, so did his minders and handlers.
Did they let him walk onto that stage knowing it’d kick open the door to replacing him?
Waiting for just such a moment are two potential candidates — Governor Gruesome of the People’s Republic of California, who wants the job badly; and FLOTUS #44, who’s said she doesn’t.
(Notice that I didn’t mention The Chuckling Hooker. She’s not under consideration, widely acknowledged in the party as an awful mistake. And no, The Inevitable Woman won’t be allowed to run again.)
But we need to recognize an important distinction between Cali Boy and FLOTUS FO-FO.
Trump can beat the former. He can’t beat the latter.
Would the Democrats put together a combo pack? Hard to say, but if they did, it’d have to be Gruesome/FLOTUS (and not the other way around). It’d improve their odds against Trump, though.
Another question is whether The Party Machine would mobilize behind a Gruesome candidacy — to rig this election like they did the last two, that is. I’m not sure they could motivate enough mules to elect a greasy-haired white boy.
Naturally, that wouldn’t be an issue if FLOTUS FO-FO tops the ticket.
The bottom line is that this ain’t over. It’s just gettin’ started. Head up, eyes open.
I opened the double doors to the shed this morning and looked at the sheet of cardboard under the Ranger — no drips. Tightening the drain plug a tick last week worked, apparently. I backed the buggy down the ramp, stopped and shot some penetrating lube on the shift linkage, which has been sticky of late.
After incinerating a full barrel of trash, I went for a brief ride. I hadn’t done that in quite a while, and I thought I’d take advantage of the cool (63°F) morning temps.
Damn, though, it was humid.
I ran down the road and back up, noticing. I continued south past the homestead, a relatively short stretch along the western boundary of our property that we hardly ever travel anymore. I took in the view of Hall Mountain.
Looking at these images, it strikes me how narrow our road truly is.
For lunch, I drizzled local honey on a couple of slices of whole-grain bread. The honey was a gift from one of the customers at the bank where Deb works, produced from hives just a few miles north of The Mountain in Flippin.
Tonight, I do believe we’ll go to the races down in the valley.
Life is good.
Finally today, I’d like you to read this mea culpa from Tractor Supply Company. Now just think about it — if this kind of corporate epiphany happened more often, you might still be shopping at Target and drinking Bud Light.
Take care of yourselves, Patriots. Stay calm. Stay sharp. Stay free.
#WiseUp #LibertyOrDeath #Ungovernable
#LetsGoBrandon #FJB