Wednesday, July 26, 2017

Like Their Father or Their Dog Just Died

The deeper down the rabbit hole we plunge, whether intellectually or viscerally, in the first six-plus months of the Circus Maximus Traveling Show whose tent is presently pitched at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, the harder it becomes for me to envision a viable national exit strategy.  We reap what we have sown, I reckon.  

How one feigns surprise about what now passes for business as usual in Mr. Trump's White House does not merely boggle my mind, it offends my intelligence.  The Cheeto-in-Chief is now what he has always been:  an entitled [proper use of the term, by the way] little rich kid with unresolved Daddy issues.  The only change is one of geography.  When he called New York City home, Fred was his daddy.  Now that he has a D.C. zip code, daddy answers to "Barack". 

I did not think I would live long enough to see a President whose agenda to date appears to be focused solely on undoing everything and anything that his predecessor did.  I know that I shall live long enough to see who follows after this debacle.  I have a granddaughter who is not quite three months old.  I owe her nothing less.

In these days of metaphorical darkness, I find myself constantly looking for something to pick me up and help me get through my day-to-day.  Yesterday I found it here, which I heartily recommend listening to repeatedly and loudly.  And if you are unfamiliar with the source material, then open another window on your computer, go here, and read along as you listen.  

Everybody knows...


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