Camera Girl is fiendishly clever. She cooks for hours in her kitchen of death. And she sets a table with millions of calories of food on it in front of me. The result is obvious. She’s trying to commit murder by cocoanut custard pie. It’s ice cream assisted suicide. Well, it’s almost midnight and I can still breath so she’s failed again. I live, but barely. But Christmas is on the horizon. Oh, the humanity! But let’s move on. Thanksgiving was a great success. Mass quantities were ingested and turned into warm feelings and tightened waist bands. Mission accomplished.
So, we will enjoy the long weekend and then get on with the business at hand. We wake up, eat breakfast and try to accomplish the things we’ve decided need doing. In the immortal words of the Duke of Despair, “And when the morning light comes streaming in, we get up and do it again, amen. Say it again. Amen.”
And that’s no different from how it was yesterday or a month ago. The only time when this reality was upended was when the powers that be imposed the COVID lockdowns on us. That was an existential threat to our livelihoods and even our lives. The disruption that rolled out at us was a disaster of such monumental proportions that the reverberations caused the results of the 2020 elections and four years later it doomed Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.
And now the powers that be may be thinking they need to up the ante. I think they want to get the Russians to start WW III. It seems inconceivable that they would do such a thing. But maybe they would. Antony Blinken and Victoria Nuland only have fifty-two days until Donald Trump fires them. They can do an awful lot of damage before then. And apparently, they intend to do it.
Well, we’ll all have a ringside seat for this Dr. Strangelove reboot. The next seven weeks will be filled with drama and unintentional comedy; pathos and bathos. But we’ll just have to be patient and let it all play out. I intend to move forward with my priorities and deal with Armageddon on a day-by-day basis. Living in a town that exists in a Lovecraftian quagmire of unspeakable eldritch horror I’m more or less acclimated to soul-crushing despair. I won’t caterwaul about a few nukes lobbed into my neighborhood. These things have to be taken in stride. My only hope is that divine retribution will be visited on Blinken and Nuland first. And if possible, maybe the hosts of MSNBC too. But I digress.
So, let’s gather up our sense of humor and our much-maligned sense of reality and put the election behind us and push the inauguration into the future and just put one foot in front of the other until Donald Trump like a modern-day Moses leads us out of the desert and into the promised land where milk and honey flows endlessly and Adam Schiff and Nancy Pelosi are fitted with strait jackets and locked in rubber rooms, forever and ever amen. Pass the pumpkin pie.