donald trump

Cockroaches In Nuclear Winter


Happy Friday, good people.  And it is a happy Friday, indeed — if I were a cockroach. 

I say this because if I were a cockroach, I would wake up every morning giddy.  Giggling, probably.  Possibly even guffawing.  Why? Because I know that no matter what, I’m going to survive.  I’ll be just fine.  My cockroach wife? Fine.  My cockroach sons? Fine.  My cockroach dog? Fine.  My entire cockroach species? Fine. 

You see, cockroaches have skittered across the earth’s surface for roughly 300 million years.  They have survived cataclysmic global events like mass extinctions and rough election cycles.  No problem. They put mustard on mass extinctions and eat them like ballpark hotdogs.  They also purportedly bump ugly uglies and reproduce at a shocking rate. Thus helping to ensure their own survival by heeding my friend Dave Pell’s post-election call to, um, “reproduce.” 

Oh, and here’s a good one: Cockroaches can live for a week with their heads completely detached from their bodies. A week.  Heads.  Detached.  Bodies.  I assure you, this trait will not make the ongoing “Best Super Powers List” my 11 year-old and I have been compiling. Sure, I could smugly introduce it when the topic next presents itself. Could be tonight, in fact.  But I would prefer to postpone his inevitable psychotherapy sessions (and the associated bills) for as long as possible.  I also don’t want to give him a ready answer to the routine doctor’s question,”Have you ever been subjected to any kind of abuse?” I am fairly certain that this would check the box: “Well, there was that one time my dad told me he wished he had the super power to live for a week with his head detached from his body….” Everett’s doctor’s lower jaw and ballpoint pen drop.  I am (justifiably) pronounced unfit.  Supervised visitation at best. Perhaps a stint in an insane asylum of some sort. No, I think I’ll keep this particular superpower to myself.  (But I think you and I can both — secretly, if you will  — agree that being able to detach our heads for a week would come in pretty handy right about now.)

Along these same lines, a cockroach, I’m told, can survive for a month without food.  This would render unnecessary those Silicon Valley billionaires’ extravagantly-outfitted fallout shelters that NPR told me about a couple days back. Cockroach Silicon Valley executives don’t need no stinking food caches. And not to nitpick, by the way, but I think technically a roach can survive for 5 weeks without food, if you factor in that week-without-its-head thing. Any way you do the math here, these insects of the order Blattodea have a leg up on us humans.  Actually, six legs up.  I mean, four legs up, if you subtract our two legs from their six.  Geez, the math gets tricky with one’s head detached and having not eaten for a month. 

So you see,  my friends, we have so much to learn from cockroaches.  If only we were willing students. It is highly unlikely, however, that we will sit at a roach’s knee — any of the six of them — and ask for pointers  for surviving a nuclear winter.  This is true because cockroaches are pretty much universally-reviled.  Repugnant. Truly yucky.  I can imagine their little feet clickity-clacking across a linoleum floor — My God, it sounds just like my typing on this MacBook’s keyboard! — and I am instantly repulsed, chin shaking. Our only hope, it seems, is these enlightened people.  Living in harmony with thousands of cockroaches in their home.  I don’t think I’m quite ready for this just yet.  But soon.  Soon. 

Thanks for reading. 



I remember when “all caps” meant something.  Somewhere high up in the pecking order of A Christmas Story‘s “triple dog dare.” High up. Something that was regrettable the instant a 1990s-era email was pecked out with the caps lock accidentally depressed.  Triggering an immediate “sorry for yelling” follow up email to the recipient dizzied by the digital decibels.

As a history major, I have a vague recollection that all caps was reserved, historically speaking, for really really important stuff.  Say, for example, when by some amazing feat of mathematical magic, we manage to put folks on the moon —

Screenshot 2017-01-25 08.17.52.png


Or when we achieve other historic firsts —




To be sure, all caps is most assuredly not always celebratory in nature; equally appropriate when something horrible has happened —




Or something horribly important happens —




Maybe I’m old-fashioned, but I miss those days. 

THOSE DAYS ARE GONE, APPARENTLY.  Instead, now we have stuff like this —


All of which is hard on the eyes.  Rough on the ears.  Tough on the soul.

But every now and then, once in a blue moon, someone indulges my All Caps Nostalgia with a spot-on all caps deployment.  


All caps, dead?  MAYBE NOT….

Thanks for reading.

That’s a lot of copies of the U.S. Constitution….


On the heels of an otherwise perfectly-choreographed PEOTUS press conference yesterday, there seems to be some question this morning regarding the folders.  More specifically, the folders jammed with reams of paper meant to underscore the steadfastness of Messr. Trump’s moral compass.  The blizzard of documentation intended to squelch even the whiff of impropriety.  Don’t even whisper the words “conflict of interest,” or “corruption.”  Come to think of it, don’t you dare even contemplate phrases that rhyme with those words.  Any of those words.  Clearly, Trump’s people are way ahead of you.  And the monument of documents splayed out before the press corps serves as a testament to the diligence and virtue of Trump’s team. End of story.  Move on, people. 

Not satisfied?  Well, what else in the wide wide world of sports would you expect to see in there?  OK, I will humor you ingrates. Allow me to address some theorized possibilities, in the hopes of setting you all straight.

Omarosa Headshot?


This might seem like a logical assumption, since Ms. Manigault was evidently among the boisterously cheering staffers on the press conference’s sidelines, and has been identified as being particularly abusive to that well-known “fake news” outlet, CNN, and its Chief White House Correspondent.  I would argue that Mr. Trump and his crew took it easy on CNN.  He could have raised a leg and kicked over the rectangular tables, spilling 1,032,014 glossy copies of Omarosa Manigault headshots into their laps.  But no, as usual, my PEOTUS took the high road. 

Inspirational Fortune Cookie Fortune?


I am sorry to disappoint all you conspiracy theorists looking to wrap up Mr. Trump’s zeitgeist with a clean little bow.  It is conceivable that Mr. Trump’s many yuge decisions have been guided by Far East wisdom stuffed in high fructose corn syrup crispy goodness. But I have done the math.  No Fortune Cookie manufacturer could possibly have whipped up a sufficient number of cookies with their little policy papers inside in such a short period of time to fill all of those folders.  Please note, however, that Mr. Trump intends to ramp up that manufacturing capacity during the early days of his administration.  Believe me. 

Twitter User Manual?


Manual?  He don’t need no stinkin’ manual!  Mr. Trump is rewriting the rules of the Twitterverse.  Twitter etiquette, common sense digital citizenship?  That’s for you little people; not for my PEOTUS.  Perhaps Mr. Trump’s 34,300 tweets, printed out in toto, would fill up those manilla folder stacks.  But that would be foolish, since his team of brilliant advisors busily deletes and edits those tweets on a regular basis.  Depriving you luddites of the ability to search for imagined inconsistencies and misunderstood racist, bigoted, or misogynistic tweets taken totally out of context. 

Dollars (billions of them)? 


WRONG!  As you well know, Mr. Trump’s wealth is practically unquantifiable.  Too bigly for you to even imagine.  So don’t even try.  Just know that on average, he turns down 3 to 7 one billion-dollar deals before you drag your sorry ass out of bed to clothe, feed and walk to school your insignificant children with weak chins. Trust me. 

Xerox of someone’s butt? 


Absolutely not.  But not because Mr. Trump hasn’t inspired legions of followers who would gladly hop on the copying machine for him on a moment’s notice.  He could shoot someone in the middle of 5th Avenue, and they would all jump right up there, clicking away at that COPY button like telegraph operators.  I would do it for sure.  This theory’s downfall is the image’s subject.  I mean, look at that butt.  Clearly not up to Mr. Trump’s standards.  I mean, gimme a break.  Not to mention, he is not just automatically attracted to the bejeweled back pockets. Oh, and he has too much respect for women.  Yeah, that’s right.  Way too  much respect for women. 

A Prop from “The Shining”? 


An interesting idea.  But a silly one.  First, this is the work product of yet another overrated Hollywood elite-type.  Total loser. Mr. Trump does not need to borrow ideas from that sort of person.  Second, as you all know by now, ordinary typewriter keys are wholly inadequate to accommodate Mr. Trump’s otherworldly digital endowment. Physically impossible. And third, Mr. Trump does not own or use a computer.  What’s that you say, a typewriter is not a computer?  Sit down, I didn’t give you a question.  Don’t be rude.

The Constitution of the United States?


Bingo!  Exactly right.  My sources within the Team Trump confirm that yes, in fact, those folders contain a full and complete copy of the entirety of the U.S. Constitution.  Yep!  How do you like them apples?  How dare you, Mr. and Mrs. Khan, suggest that my PEOTUS has never actually read the Constitution.  I assure you, believe me, he has read every single page.  And to prove it, we’ve assembled photocopies of all 1,032,014 pages — most with Mr. Trump’s personal notations in the margins — right up here on the dais. OK, yes, the gentleman in the back from Heaping Pile of Garbage news outlet?  You say the Constitution is actually just 4 pages of parchment paper? Your organization is terrible, sir, and you are clearly fake news. Sit down.

So there you have it. Now that I have resolved this particular political witch hunt for you, I hope you people are happy.  You’re welcome.

Thanks for reading. 


PEOTUS Fixed the Drought!


I awoke this morning to the most wonderful news:  The drought in California is, at long last, over.  There was only one person who could fix it.  And…he did!  I hereby rescind any and all written or oral statements I’ve ever made that could be viewed by my enemies as negative commentary on Messr. Trump.  Oh, and thoughts.  Any critical thoughts I may or may not have had, I disavow those too.  Actually, it doesn’t matter, because those alleged writings, verbal comments and thoughts are totally unsubstantiated.  Fake news.  Get over it, people.  Move on.  Because as of this morning, America — or at least the California part — is GREAT AGAIN!

I’m talking about the refreshed water table.  Now flush! Filled to the brim. Practically overflowing, thanks entirely to Donald Trump’s largesse.  Apparently, Mr. Trump orchestrated a wonderful climatic event in Russia awhile back, with the direct result of ending the drought here in California.  They even have a name for this sort of miraculous event — a “Golden Shower”!

And who would have thought that it would require British Intelligence to unearth Trump’s enormous contribution to righting my state’s long-standing ecological deficit?  Such modesty!  Rather than accept the well-deserved adulation, Mr. Trump humbly notes the revelation is “unsubstantiated.”  Oh Donald, there’s no need.  Like an anonymous donor writing a yuge check to a worthy charity, later discovered, please just bask in the glow of our unabashed appreciation. You have earned it, sir! 

Note: I grew up in a small town; the child of parents who grew up in smaller towns.  Arguably a bit of a Podunk kind of guy.  So I confess that “Golden Shower” is not a regularly occurring phrase in my lexicon.  And it’s been a busy morning in our household, so I haven’t had a chance yet to cruise around Wikipedia. Urban Dictionary.  Really get up into the etymology of it.  The way I like to when stumbling on a new and interesting turn of phrase.  I’ll get to that work right after my PEOTUS’ press conference. 

In the meantime, thank you, Mr. Trump, for the Golden Shower!  On behalf of my fellow Californians, thank you!   

Thanks for reading.