The Bullshit Is Starting

TAP Beer of the Week: Smashed Pumpkin Ale

The sun is going down and I spotted a few people with bags across the block, so I guess I have to stop whatever I want to be doing now, sit down in the living room — I’ve already locked the frustrated cats behind closed doors to prevent ninja escapes — and wait for the troops of little assholes that I don’t know from Adam to knock on my door extorting candy.

Every year someone tells me “you could just go out.” Where? This is my house. I would like to enjoy spending time in it. There is nothing to enjoy about having to jump up every five or ten minutes to give cheap crappy candy to kids you don’t know, because I am pretty careful not to know any kids, when you are hungry for dinner and would just like to read your book afterward. And fake enthusiasm for their costumes, maybe two of which in an evening actually amount to something. You are stuck with this, because you don’t want to get eggs thrown at your house for refusing to play the stupid game. Trust me, you never want to have to get dried egg out of a porch screen. It takes weeks.

How did this get so out of control? The time change — which is nonsense in itself — has now been orchestrated around it. God forbid any of the littlest maggots should have to go out in the dark.

I think I am out of politics for good, but if I ever run for anything myself — back when I was managing the campaign of an all American whack job, people used to suggest the idea — I am running on a platform that includes the abolition of Trick Or Treating. There will also be condign penalties for using quotation marks for emphasis and the incorrect placement of apostrophes, but unlike the goddam candy raiders, offenders will be eligible for parole.



7 thoughts on “The Bullshit Is Starting

  1. Hey. I have been thinking about you. And this post. What to do? Welll, this year I put on a ridiculous princess costume that was languishing in our attic and rustled to the door in my big ole skirt every time a child showed up on my doorstep. There were many appreciative little girls. You have a fancy red dress, I recall. I suggest you wear it next Halloween. Wtf not? Whaddya got to say, Sled?

    • I’m just too tired at this point.

      Chronic pain is taking it out of me — I’m still blowing up 40# dumbbells, but it hurts to gimp to the door. Still unclear what the solution is. If it isn’t fixed by next Halloween I’ll be firing an air gun at the little bastards.

      I miss you and all the fun we’ve had with Roma and Zeus and friends. Terminally depressed about Trump and life and finding it hard to write. Annoy me.

      • We didn’t see this coming, did we? On election day (that fateful one, not the most recent one), my daughter came home so we could vote together. She is not weathered and suspicious of all politicians. So she was an enthusiastic Hilary supporter. And she is not alienated from her generation, so she instagrams along with the everybody else. She posted a giddy shot of the two of us just after we left the polls with our “I voted” stickers on our chests and her happy caption: “The only thing better than voting for the first woman president is voting for the first woman president with your mother.” Eight gazillion hearty thumbs up for that sentiment, of course. And then…

        I look at that photo and it crystallizes our predicament. Not only is everything really, really, REALLY awful. It is, but what makes things so much worse is that we’re humiliated by not having seen it coming. Now anything could happen.

        Maybe you did see it coming.

        So what’s left? There is my fantasy of retreating to my make-believe farm called “26 Ducks.” What else? You made me laugh out loud at 4:45am with your cranky affectionate “Annoy me.” Let’s start the day with that. I can think, somebody already made me laugh today. And you can think, I already made somebody laugh today.

        • I did not, actually, see it coming. But then we none of us imagined how deeply the Russian intelligence folk were fucking with us. I was afraid of Trump and his toads, but as a social influence, not an electoral threat. I started out the evening drinking Fernet Branca and I never want to taste it again.

          All we can do is keep on voting and donating to people who are truing the vote (like in NC) and pushing back any way we can.

          And I have to choose between the trigger point injection people and the stem cell people because the bone saw butchers do not get to come at me. Goddam legs don’t do what they were made to do, the pain is indescribable, but the arms still go and I will have biceps like Thor if this keeps up. To punch Nazis with.

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