"The further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those who speak it." - George Orwell
Dear Friends: Orwell said it best.
"The further a society drifts from the truth, the more it will hate those who speak it." - George Orwell
Dear Friends: Orwell said it best.
Dear Friends: Hot off the press: Alphabet, Inc. (née Google, Inc.) has been infiltrated by that scourge to any and all things silicon, any and all things high-tech, and any and all things a virtual click away... a human being. More shocking, said human being actually said something that was on his mind (née an opinion), in clear violation of any and all said PC rules.
(It was actually an internal memo, probably dictated to Siri, or Alexa, or Hal, or whoever/whatever the hell is running that shit-show called Silicon Valley (now to be forever coined Silicoin ValleyICTM, because it's clearly all about who can collect the most gold coins), where speaking your mind (if you even have one) costs you your job.)
(As such, Silicon ValleyICTM also works.)
And it's no longer even over-the-top to imagine the parallels: If you speak out against the government of North Korea, you die, literally. If you speak out against the government of Google, you die, figuratively. And by all accounts, the figures are massive.
So Memo to Google: Come on, man. Don't be evil. Or North Korea.
Thankfully, the War against the Robots, pink or otherwise, is still a couple of years away. At least, we all hope so. But it has become clear that this Campaign Summer is all about that oldest of all human political campaigns: War. (A technical term used by the currently bombarded White House, appropriately.)
For war is being waged against these great United States of America, against our President Donald J. Trump and Family, even against our God above, a war waged both literally and figuratively, from forces both within and without our great Consitutional Democracy.
So Memo to Social Democrats: Come on, man. Don't be evil. Or Venezuela.
Literally, the aforementioned North Korea is growing a pair, somehow, the aforementioned Venezuela is losing its shit, without the benefit of toilet paper, Syria seems forever bleeped, Iran is looming, ISIS is waning, but like a rat in a corner, allowing al-qaeda to be re-spawned in the son-of-Osama, while Afghanistan remains Afghanis-bleeped, all under the ever-watchful eye of the impaler, Vladimir Putin. And, that's just the A-list.
Figuratively, Special Counsel Robert Mueller has impaneled a grand jury to ramp up the biggest political hoax since the McGovern campaign, the well-coined "Russian-Collusion-Delusion" (credit to Sean Hannity and/or Doctor Sebastian Gorka), and, apparently, there's a (figurative) hit-list, which is being referred to in code as the (literal) to-do list.
(Ironically, the market has hit stratospheric highs, and still stratosphering, growth is up and still growing, jobs are up and rising, unemployment is down and falling, tax reform is on its way and promises to accelerate all of the above, and all while illegal immigration is way down, even before the wall goes up, sanctuary cities are on their way out, the baddies are being removed, asap, and other than the new-normal-threat (a technical Obama-administration term) of terrorism and the soon-to-be-normal-threat (same) of North Korea launching a decapitating nuclear attack on one or more of our major metropolitan cities, or some farm in Kansas, which would have the same effect, we're relatively safe.)
Except from the shallow state.
So come on, shallow state. How about you get a grip. Look at all the President has accomplished, and ask yourselves, how much more would he have accomplished if not handcuffed by your constant
attacks leaks? And the liberal-media-industrial-complex's constant barrage of fake news? And Congress?
Then ask yourselves, whose side are you on anyway? If you vote -- with your conscience or otherwise -- to allow the President, our President, to do his job, consider yourself a great American. If not, go bleep yourself. And move to Canada. And take your comrades with you.
And that means you, too, Congress.
For somehow Congress is on vacation, some 3-5 weeks' worth, since they think this is now Europe (given the last administration), but hey, they've worked hard, and accomplished much, and deserve their hard-earned respite from a job well done. And the President should send them all a special gift for that job well done: a special-delivery, individually-wrapped pink-slip. Figurative, of course.
Dear Friends: Let's do a quick review of Anthony Scaramucci's record-setting tenure as White House Communications Director. He was hired. He communicated, quite colorfully. He was fired.
In other, far less important news: Venezuela is officially bleeped, so score another one for socialism. And if the old adage is true that all war is about (making) the money, then socialists are savant-like in their brilliance at making wars, given that their specialty, civil wars, only lose money. This is War 102. (War 101: War makes money. War 102: Civil wars lose money.)
Unless, of course, the said socialist shows his truest colors, and names himself dictator. Said dictator has now achieved the highest dictum (a lot of dics- in socialism) of the true socialist dictator: Everything for him. Nothing for you. If you don't like it, leave. Except you're not allowed to leave. By penalty of death.
(Quick question: Didn't Goldman Sachs just invest $2.8 billion in Venezuelan "bonds?" Oops. Who's gonna bail that one out?)
(In related news: Nicolas Maduro just became a multi-billionaire. Again.)
(In under-related news: The Goldman Sachs deal was brokered by the Clinton Foundation. Through Hilary Clinton. She's still acting Secretary of State. In her mind.)
And in other, equally less important news: North Korea, aka Venezeula's not-so-distant
cousin future, keeps firing off missiles. And soon, they won't be blanks. And they're mobile launches, difficult to track, difficult to prevent. (Unless you're a fat, 400 lb. teenage-hacker turned dictator.) This is what military people refer to as a no-win situation, given that any pre-emptive strike will result in Seoul (South Korea) being re-spelled FUBAR. And Tokyo. And Beijing. And Alaska. And Hawaii. You get the picture. Bleak.
(And not Kubrickian bleak, either. That would entail Dennis Rodman, acting in his dream-role as dictator-in-training. And given his probable sources of funding for such a fantasy-internship, he'd probably be called Dennis Rodman-Rodham. And Chelsea finally gets to be a Communications Director.)
Because that Kim Jung Un is that bleeping crazy. How crazy is he? Crazy enough to shoot off his missiles in all directions at once, for no other reason than to shoot off his missiles, in all directions, at once. He might even think he's playing a game, like his beloved basketball, and fancies himself a shooter, and just keeps shooting, and shooting, and wouldn't it be nice if he actually played basketball, real basketball, just once, and keeled over from a massive heart attack?
Fat chance of that.
But we can still hope.
Because the world is not as bleak as it seems. It never is. There is always good news in the world as well. The good news: General John F. Kelly, White House Chief of Staff.
(Note: In my previous post, I mistakingly stated that the now-infamous "meeting" took place on June 3, 2016. It occurred on June 9, 2016. The rest of that story should be history, but somehow isn't.)
Dear Friends: It's officially official. The shallow state has begun their final push to re-capture the government from our President Donald J. Trump. How? They finally forced son-in-law Jared Kushner, Senior Advisor to the President, to speak. In public. (It was more of a read-in-public, but whatever. He can speak lawyer-speak. Short and to the point. A good skill to have, in these days of doom.) That's the shallow.
What's underneath: Mr. Kushner, son-in-law to the President, will be pitted against Donald Trump, Jr., son and namesake to the President, and even Slick Willy Shakespeare himself (no relation to The Bard; but back in the day, Slick Willy also wrote some soft-porn, under the pseudonym Bernie Sanders) couldn't have written it any worse. (And Saul Alinsky is smiling in his grave.)
And so typical of progressives to only focus on the things that really matter, the dirt, all in the name of their personal search and destroy mission aimed at our constitutional core, our capitalism and our democracy, by aiming at the very literal and figurative symbol of those virtues, our President Donald J. Trump and Family. The First Family.
And yet, these progressives seem to have forgotten that the Trumps didn't achieve their esteemed position by playing patty-cake football.
In fact, if we know anything about our President Donald J. Trump and Family, they're probably laughing while gearing up for yet another bare-knuckle throw-down go-to-the-mattresses fight. In public. And, they'll win. In public.
Point #1: Dear Public. This is not between Donald Trump, Jr., and Jared Kushner, with Vladimir Putin pulling the strings. That's the fake narrative. Rather, it's an attack on the Trump family, an all-American First Family, and as such an attack on all of us. And, it's an attack on capitalism.
Point #2: There is a better-than-extremely-high probability that the shallow state has more dirt to leak on the President and Family. The June 9th meeting may be only the tip of the iceberg, in this case an iceberg made entirely out of bullshit.
Point #3: SNL will probably parody this bit of palace intrigue (a technical Hollywood term) by seating Alec Baldwin in the Archie Bunker chair, and in her final and farewell role, Melissa McCarthy will play Jared Kushner, aka "Meathead."
"Marcia, Marcia, Marcia!" - Jan Brady
"Russia, Russia, Russia!" - Hilary Clinton
"Drip, drip, drip." - The shallow state
Dear Friends: Our President Donald J. Trump has officially kicked off the "Make America Great: Made in America" campaign, and we're all for it. And all in. And doubling down. But not doubling down like Jon Favreau in Vegas (see: "Swingers.") More like President Donald J. Trump doubling down, in Vegas. Because unlike Jon Favreau in Vegas, the President would win.
And "Made in America" is already a win. In fact, it's a win-win. Which is the best type of win. (Unless you're running for President. There's only one winner there.)
And there sat the White House itself, adorned in the signature products from all fifty states, even California, the grounds boasting with Illinois made Caterpillar heavy-equipment, and Wisconsin made fire-trucks, and inside, and on stage, the President himself accompanied by rockin' guitars from both Gibson and Fender (Tennessee and Arizona, respectively), and man, did he rock that speech.
(Curious fact about guitars: sales are reportedly way down, for both Gibson and Fender (the big two, hands down.) Apparently, it ain't cool to rock anymore. Nowadays, you just
steal sample other people's work, and call it your own. (See: Ice, Vanilla. The greatest basdardization of a masterpiece ever, even after all these years. "Under Pressure" by Queen & David Bowie rocks. "Ice Ice Baby" sucks, and is a a stone-cold theft. And is probably responsible for all the plummeting guitar sales.)
Anyway, the President starts off his speech with a quip about the CEO of Omaha Steaks hugging him and wanting to kiss him for opening up the beef markets in China again, after 13 years of no American beef. (How the hell were we not selling beef to China all this time? They want beef. We have beef. Make it work.)
And the President made it work, like he makes everything work. Because he always doubles down. And always wins.
(A curious city, Vegas. They recently legalized recreational marijuana (as if its former status ever stopped anyone), but somehow didn't have the supply to meet the demand. Here we have an entire casino industry begging for people to sit at their tables, high, and they can't. Again: you can buy pot legally in Vegas, but you can't buy pot legally in Vegas, because it's all been bought. Good job, Senator.)
Back to politics. Have you all seen the recent shark-flick (a technical Hollywood term) starring Blake Lively called "The Shallows." It's a surfer-chick-flick (another Hollywood term) meets Jaws-flick within sight of a paradisically desolate beach. And, within sight of her cellphone. Still on the beach. (No spoilers there: it's totally worth watching.) Now, substitute for "great white shark" with "great red menace," and it's a political-flick.
And thanks to eight years of the last president's "foreign policy," we're right back to where we were in the eighties. Apparently, the eighties did call, and they did want their foreign policy back. (What a dumb joke then, and what a dumber joke now.)
Thankfully, the spirit of the man who defeated the red menace then, President Ronald Reagan, is alive and well and re-born in our President Donald J. Trump. But unlike President Reagan, President Trump has more communists fighting him from within as without.
Consider: The shallow state had, and presumably still has, the Trump Tower under surveillance. Donald Trump, Jr., has his ill-fated and legendarily not-well-thought-out meeting with that Russian nobody, and others, on June 3, 2016. (Any hint that the date of said surveillance began after that meeting lacks any possible smidgeon of credibility.) The world finds out about said meeting now, over a year later, and just as the entire "Russian thing" is finally being put to its rightful rest.
And mind not that this "bombshell out of the blue" also happens to coincide with the final push to repeal Obamacare (note: Repeal. Period. Do your jobs, Congress, and let the President do his), and with the President's upcoming push for massive economy-growing tax reform, and mind not that Democrats ignore his already massive policy successes, because that's all Democrats care about, controlling our health and our money, and clearly with the message Democrats plan to use to sell their 2018 candidates: Vote Democrat. We're Not Cummunists.
Dear Friends: Bond. James Bond. That's what the J. in our President Donald J. Trump stands for. James. Bond. And pay attention here: He wears the white hat.
And in the blue hat, Barrack H. "B." Obama. The H stands for Hosein. The "B" stands for Blofeld. Hosein Blofeld.
And in the red hat, Vlad "the H. B. impaler" Putin --
Wait. How did that happen? What's this whole thing with the red hat? Did our President Trump sell the rights to the red hat to the impaler? Or did the impaler sell the rights to then candidate Trump? Enquiring minds want to know. So where the hell are ya, Chelsea?
(She's probably at
the Clinton Foundation's her $50,000/week Hampton beach pad, prepping for a grueling semester teaching all that Ivy League talent how to journalize. She calls it her August recess, starting in July.)
Whatever. Let's get back to that red hat story. Is it just a coincidence? Or is Theodor Geisel involved? (Geisel. Theodor Geisel. Another world-famous unknown spy. He always took his martinis fried.) Because there's just no other possible reason the Republican Party's hat would be red --
Whoa. This thing is deeper than we all thought. Is it possible Putin has been a spy all along? Since back when the Republican Party started? And he's actually John Wilkes Booth? And he's been toying with the world ever since, pretending to be a communist, as the world's foremost capitalist? And here comes this new guy on the bloc, this President Donald J. Trump, wanting to expand his already vast bloc?
"O. M. G." says Putin, with sudden realization. "Republicans are all communists in disguise. Just look at the hats. They're all red. I'll have to discuss going into the red hat business with code-name DJT."
Let's get back to the actual business at hand, Trump v. Putin: There was a handshake, and eye contact, and an offer to trade wives. Then Putin laughed, and released the handshake. (But the offer clearly remained on the table.)
(Note: President Trump didn't quite realize the offer, until First Lady Melania translated it for him. She's quite fluent in Putin and other eastern bloc humor.)
Duly informed of this opposition research, President Trump's return gambit was Venezuela: "You can have it, Vlad. But we're taking back Cuba."
Putin laughs, and says, "Dah."
"Vlad, I like you. You're tough, like me. But it wasn't a dah-nah question."
President Trump pulls out his cellphone, and starts to --
"Okay, Donald. You vin."
President Trump slips the cellphone back into a pocket, smiles, and says, "Good."
"So what's the password?"
"Yes, Vlad. The password."
"This'll be easy."
(Note: This is the "payoff" to a "joke" I texted you during The First 100 Days. You may remember it. Probably not. The joke: A special Saturday Night Live post, inspired by Greg Gutfeld: Drunk-Demolition-Derby. It's what rednecks call D+D. And they never insist on the ampersand....)
Dear Friends: The point of the joke was to be funny. And to make you think. They rarely go hand in hand. But if you follow the circle-logic above and wonder about the ampersand, aka the "&", and substitute an "&" for the "+", voila, you get D&D (aka Dungeons and Dragons), which is what all the progressives grew up playing, since it's all fantasy and no reality.
It's all in the details. Progressives are such sticklers for every little D&D detail, they'd insist on the ampersand, and wouldn't play without an ampersand, and probably pout unless you use an ampersand, and maybe throw a tantrum, unless you use an ampersand, while the rednecks only care about an ampersand if it's the kind of sand that slows down the Drunk-Demolition-Derby (aka the D+D. Rednecks drop the redundant D. And the ampersand. More efficient that way.)
Meanwhile, the progressives are still bleeping about a bleeping ampersand. Pretty soon, there may be a progressive hissy-fit. Over an ampersand. Because how dare you not use an ampersand? What are you, a redneck?
And the good old rednecks are having a hoot and a holler at the D+D, drinking and demolishing, which sounds like total fun, maybe even more fun than that time Cooter happened upon Daisy Duke's daisy dukes, with Daisy still in em.
As opposed to bleeping about a bleeping ampersand.
So I'm with the rednecks all the way. Progressives just aren't any fun. And it goes without saying, I'd much rather party with rednecks, which I've done plenty. Heck, how else would I get their sense of humor?
(Even better: I once also partied with a former member of Hell's Angels. Once. His stories were the best, even if unpublishable. Simply too offensive. But that's a story for another time. And, it's a good story.)
Of course, I've also partied with plenty of liberals. In fact, I've partied with anybody who ever felt like partying. Partying is fun. Much more so than work. I probably missed my calling when I didn't choose a career in partying. I certainly majored in it. And now that I think about it, what was I thinking? Partying full-time? As an occupation? No brainer.
Of course, as a full-time partier, I'd also be forced to party with progressives. And, as aforementioned, progressives just, aren't, any, fun. I can just imagine my party company (I'm not dumb; I'd own the party company, not work for it) being hired by a buncha progressives for some kinda progressive party. Probably a D&D party. Because those progressives really know how to party. (Side-note: D+D parties would be so much more infinitely fun. Drinking, Demolishing, and Daisy Duke? We'd do it for free. Beer included.)
But no, here's this buncha progressives, and they hire my party company to help em party. Which would probably require every employee I employ. And trust me, it'd be a big party company. Because I'd wanna party big. Not necessarily large, but big. So we'd be a niche party company. We don't party large. We party big.
(Meh. Maybe not such a great slogan, yet. I'd have to hire a slogan company to work on it. Because my party company would create jobs. In partying. And just think, calling in sick with a hangover would be part of the job description. Hell, if you're not calling in sick with a hangover, on a regular basis, I'd fire you. After a performance review, of course. I'd run a fair party company. And ironically, my party company would actually benefit from Obamacare. Think about that one for a minute. But don't think too hard. You might hurt yourself. But party like a rock star, if you work for me. We have Obamacare.)
And getting back to that progressive party, I'd have to charge them the Cadillac rate. Partying with progressives would be a chore, and not at all fun, and probably some sorta fantasy party, but not at all fantastic, like trying to play fantasy football with a buncha progressives. Imagine pick-up football, but not with Christopher Walken. (Big partier.) It'd be more like patty-cake football. Pick em last, they bleep. Don't throw it to em, they bleep. Throw it to em, they bleep. Mention the word 'pigskin', even once, they bleep. Explain it's only a metaphor, they bleat. (Think about that one.) And if you tackle em, they break.
So definitely, no real football with progressives. Flag football, maybe. But if you rip their flags too fast, they bleep. And if you only play touch football with em, and you touch em, they bleep. And if you never ask them to play football again, they go nuclear. So maybe my party company simply wouldn't cater to progressives. But God forbid, they'd crucify me for it.
Or at least, they'd try. We'd have big-party lawyers. And the support of our President Trump's business friendly climate. And, there's this grand old document called The Constitution.
For we here support our country in everything it does, and our President Trump in everything he does, even his tweets. And the liberal-media-complex can go tweet themselves, for all we care.
So thank you, President Trump, for being straight, always on the money, and with a welcome sense of humor. We support you, Sir, in everything you do for us, and especially your tweets. And the liberal-media-complex can go tweet themselves, for all we care.
Dear Friends: In today's upside-down world, is humor a fine line, or a partisan line?
Discuss amongst yourselves.
Dear Friends: Welcome back. Hope the long TFL hiatus wasn't too interminable for you. But really, not much happened. Let's review:
And that's where our country finds itself today. The shit is hitting the fan, from every conceivable angle, and the bleeping fan wasn't even made in the USA. It was made in Russia. They specialize in shit-fans. But the rest is wholly homegrown, and made in the United State of California, and probably composted. After all, and let's be real here, our greatest geo-political and existential threat remains global warming. No, really. Which brings us to the famous fable of the Alligator in the Pond.
There was once a perfect little pond that sat perfectly content in its perfect, harmonious little ecosystem. All the predators ate, and all the prey ate, and all the plants made it all look pretty, and everything decomposed appropriately.
One day, into this perfect little pond slides an unwelcome alligator. Immediate, mass chaos -- the birds flapping up and everywhere, wild rustles throughout the plants, and every shrill insect shrills out, all at once -- and the alligator disappears under the surface, but for its placid, reptilian eyes, and the tip of its long, reptilian nose.
And the alligator proceeds to eat all the predators, and all the prey, and all the plants and insects, until it finds itself floating alone in the middle of an empty pond.
The alligator dies. And from its dead, bloated carcass springs up a new pond, better than ever.
The moral of the story: it depends. Some would say, "Don't blame the alligator, that's what it does. But we'll gladly kill it for you." Some would say, "Relocate the alligator, damn the cost, problem solved." Some would say, "That alligator was put there by aliens! How dare we bleep with it!" And some would say, with half their brains tied behind their backs, "That's what people do. Deal with it accordingly."
Dear President Trump: Drain the swamp. Accordingly. You know where to start.
And with that, Dear Friends, we begin the second installment of our on-going TFL chronicle: Campaign Summer.
"How long, O Lord . . . How long? Where will it end? The only possible way out of this wretched campaign is the ever-increasing liklihood that it will cause the Democratic Party to self-destruct." - Doctor H. S. Thompson; Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail, '72; quoted from Generation of Swine
Dear Friends: The Good Doctor called it, as only he could, straight to the bone and forty-five years a priori, or if preferred of his tastes, forty-five years aged in hardest oak, prescriptions ahead of schedule and lined with guts, the genius literary gambler. It took a brute force of nature in an age of conscious (and constant) chemical enlightenment to endure. Between perpetual inebriation and perpetual hangover, inebriation. A rare performance indeed.
Would we have paid the price to gig along with the good Doctor and his hideous troupe of traveling side-kicks? Only if as advertised: the weekends in Vegas, the long-strange trips on trails of doom, the breakneck deadlines driven over hellish schedules, that satchel to be damned with the bats. And it's the bats that are hitchhiking the ride these days, swooping-in zig-zags and flashes of black light from places unknown, no longer even bothering to dress the part. Theirs was a cheap act anyway, always as advertised: caveat emptor.
No, good Sirs. I'd pay for the full ride, no cheap escapes here. Under the savage guidance of the good Doctor and the viciously altered ego of Raoul Duke and the sage-savage advice of the legal-genius Dr. Gonzo, ill as he was, by the end, maybe I'd be the better for The Story today. Maybe. For if they preached perseverance, to weed out any weakness of the heart, I imagine, they'd give up to this pit-chorus. Talent is the only height requirement, they'd say. And a flagon of good whiskey. And that satchel-full of drugs. They liked their drugs, with a serious perseverance.
Certainly a fine idea at the time. Everybody was cool with it, even the uncool with it, which made it hip to all the possibilities of vicarious living within that diverse community of drugs. All were allowed. And when they ran out, break out the good stuff. It took a village, and rainy days were never seldom, and when it finally got down to snowing in Colorado, it was always the good stuff. If you kept your wits, you got The Story.
We're all the better for it now, to be but the benign symptoms of that malignant disease. Coherence was an unnecessary liability in times of swine. Doctors of Journalism took the ride and came out alive, until their very last statement. Maybe the doomed do speak best for the doomed, and the good Doctor may have agreed. He was keen for the sentimental type, would've had his attorney draw up the agreements. He played his cards openly, and all bets were on.
And I'd have anted up to put down that bet with him, just once. Maybe I'd understand the game better today. Maybe. Then again, what's to understand? Stand your ground or take the ride. Only the doomed need not apply.
The doomed indeed. Those polls came in and were proven irrelevant. The winners won, the losers lost, a Socialist from Vermont collected the vigorish. And somehow avoided all suspicion, even if we knew better than to trust their ilk. They only want to spend your money. And would doom us all. It's the Socialists today who live by Nixon's words of yesterday: "Fuck the doomed."
I loathe that digress, for the profane has no place, yet find it necessary in an age of no hope for the bleating: Socialists would do that to us all. No amount of wool can warm those hearts, nor keep their disguise.
So Hope & Gloating on the Campaign Trail '20 begins with Hope on our side, Bloating on theirs, and an early campaign stop for our President to celebrate his First 100 Days where it all began, Pennsylvania, the State that put him over the top and hammered the nail in their coffin. And the watch is on as they dig deeper and deeper to their core, bloated indeed. Their constituency remains The Walking Dead, and they don't vote. No need to, when the brains are for free.
And The Train, O That Train, it pulls freely back onto The Trail, and we're reminded of that Chinese Proverb: The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago, the second best time is today.
Or a Saturday night in Pennsylvania. Embraced with open arms. The current President is stronger than the last, works magnitudes faster and better and harder at all times day or night, and Vegas has placed the inside odds at 16 hours/day vs. 8 hours/week, but not for The Trail. Hard odds there. Tough to beat that run from 2004 through 2012, with that brief interlude in the fall of 2016.
And to count him out would be grave. The Rumors have him campaigning to run in 2020, and we believe it, given the war chest he's amassing at $32.5 Mil/book and $400K/hour. He's learned from the "mistakes" of the Clinton Foundation, and he was a capitalist all along. (Note: Emphasis is made by all involved that he's only campaigning to run, at 32.5 Mil and 400K.)
But he would be tough to beat. He couldn't run a D.C. shoe store, but when it came to The Trail, he ran on it like water. And now he's mad as Hillary that she lost, no longer even denying that he had the parachute-in-waiting for Joe, but Joe wouldn't bite. Maybe Joe knew better. We know they'll always wonder about that Biden/Sanders ticket to ride.
So allow the campaigns to begin! said the man, and if on the other side, abandon all hope if you enter. The people have spoken. Politics is blood-sport, and only strength and endurance survive. And money. It's always been about the money. What else is there? they say. Only the doomed need not apply.
And so your humble narrator concludes this chronicle of 100 Days with a head full of hope and a heart beating red. The time has come for us all, and time must be taken to contemplate the story at large, with a solid ear to the ground-swell that is America in the year of our Lord, 2017, and an ever-present eye for The Fine Line.
Respectfully submitted, and to be continued...
THD; May 2, 2017
With all and every due respect to Hunter S. Thompson, Doctor of Journalism. I once knew what the S. stood for. I've since forgotten. Remembering would not have been his style.