Saturday, October 22, 2016
I think Trump and his supporters are going to be bad losers. I envision Trump in ten years a decrepit old man in a tattered coat and faded pants sauntering about his vastly diminished empire with brooding eyes and an altogether dejected air. A most awful howling can be heard from his filthy, foul smelling room as the reoccurring nightmare of his ignominious defeat at the hands of Hillary grabs him once again by his no longer orangish throat. The flat grey light of dawn finally creeps through his unwashed bedroom window and falls upon a polished mahogany, elegantly carved casket in this dream. Painted on the casket in bold, gold leaf letters is the word LOSER!
The geriatric Trump will no longer be able to afford the luxury of revenge. His severely diminished brain is able only to process the concept of jealousy. His no longer attentive children are quarreling over what is left of his remaining possessions. A joyless procession of lawyers will be advising him on how to keep out of prison. Trumps immodest love of self display will have ceased years before. He is a recluse, e.g. Howard Hughs. What is left of his cotton candy hair has a dirty white hue. The dissipated spendthrift is attended by a bulky lady of masculine appearance. She wears tortoise shell glasses, has hard features and a deeply wrinkled face. She can't help smirking at the once rakish, spend thrift.
Trumps only contact with the outside world is his TV. Barack Obama is a constant presence in Trumps diminished world. As Barack jets about the world with his trademark ghetto swagger, Trump stares at his TV with a glazed expression and listless eyes. Bent with age, brooding over the past, the conjunction of circumstances that created this catastrophe continue to linger in his once scheming mind. When he sees former president Hillary Clinton appear on TV in a perfect ecstasy of delight, he fumbles for his remote control. Nothing Trump did, or attempted , appears now to have prospered. Sitting in his leatherette lazy boy chair all you can see when you enter his airless room are a pair of large pink ears emerging above the collar of his soiled pajamas. He is pale, unnaturally thin, with large, sunken, cadaverous eyes. Whats left of his hair is long and straggly; his manner is ungainly. He no longer has an appetite. He can exist for days at a time eating only ice-cream.
Trumps ex-wife, Melania, has remarried. Her new husband is fifteen years younger than she. The National Inquirer insists the new husband is a Russian gangster. Trumps youngest son Barren has been expelled from Brown for selling drugs. He is a fixture in the New York Club scene and photos of him in drag have begun to surface. He has signed a contract with Harper Collins to pen a tell-all book about growing up with his universally reviled father. Barren is bitter about his fathers disinheriting him. A svelte Chris Christy has recently been released from prison. While he was in prison he became a born again Christian. Rudy Giuliani died after his Alzheimer's. Donald Junior is still recovering from having a Peta activist toss acid in his face on Fifth Avenue. Ivanka Trump has endorsed Chelsea Clinton in Chelsea's attempt to replace Chuck Shumer in the Senate.
See ya Monday.
Friday, October 21, 2016
Last night, perched on a bar stool, I watched the Cubs kick the Dodgers ass on the soundless Ale House TV. The Dodgers have a lousy team -- other than Kershaw, mediocre pitching and crappy defense. When someone asked if we would switch over to the Bear football game, I explained that we had but one TV, and the Cubs quest to break a century and a half of habitual losing, trumped watching the Bears lose to Green Bay. A tired Cougar sat down next to me. Not only does she own a business which employees 125 people, she's on the board of at least a dozen local organizations. And if that wasn't enough her social obligations are never ending. While we were watching the game Blue Hog walked up to me. For a moment I didn't recognize her. It had been at least 25 years since she'd left town in a hurry and moved to LA. She said she was in Chicago for her fiftieth high school reunion. Blue Hog was one of the stars of my amazing play, Menopause Man. She played one of the floozies. Mary Jo Touhy played the other floozy. Both girls were on the hefty size, and watching them cavort with Pauly Woo Woo, who played Guy Van Dyke , aka Menopause Man, was quite amusing.
Originally Pat Colander was going to play the nymphet, but she got knocked-up by Pauly Woo Woo (the fetus would turn out to be the future Charles Ansell) and had to be replaced by a girl who'd acted in "Sixteen Candles." The actress who was supposed to play Guy Van Dyke's wife (She was the voice on the irritating "Culligan Man" water softener TV commercials) became so terrified at the prospect of going on stage as opening night neared, she ate herself into a frenzy and developed stress fractures on both her feet from the enormous amount of weight she'd gained. At the last minute Tobin had to take over the part of Carla Van Dyke and she ended up stealing the show.
During our three week run at the Noyes Cultural Center in Evanston I clashed with the theaters CEO, Byrne Piven. He was appalled by what he described as my plays "gross, lascivious, vulgarity." His asshole kid, Jeremy Piven, and the two Cusak kids , all of whom went on to become Hollywood movie stars, were the chief suspects in sabotaging our light board. The play received rave reviews from both Rick Kogan and Roger Ebert. Unfortunately, after Piven kicked us out of his theater, none of the other candy-assed Chicago theaters had the guts to put this amazing play on. Perhaps someday I'll dust it off and see if I can get A Red Orchid Theater to give it a go.
Because I was watching the Cubs game I didn't get a chance to talk much to Blue Hog. She seemed well, I know she's had a series of health issues. She's now living in Seattle.
When I got home last night I turned on the TV to see if anything interesting had happened in the ongoing political food fight taking place in the land of the free and the home of the brave. I was not disappointed. Donald Trump, dressed in a tux, was speaking live at the Al Smith Dinner in New York. His orange face looked like the backside of a baboon as he made an attempt to be funny. Later, I saw the earlier part of his speech. The part I initially saw was fascinating. He was being booed by the mostly conservative, movers and shakers that attend this annual event. He accused Hillary of hating Catholics! This was especially interesting given the Al Smith dinner is a Catholic charity event.
I remember hearing a lot about Al Smith in 1960 when JFK ran against Nixon. Prior to JFK, Smith was the only Catholic to have ever run for the presidency. In the jerk water suburb I grew up in, Uppers Grove, which was in the middle of ultra racist , right wing Dupage County, anti-Catholic sentiment was rampant. As a kid I remember well the fears of our neighbors at the influx of Chicago people moving into our lily-white community because "they were mostly Catholics." JFK had to swear daily that he wouldn't become a papist puppet if he became president.
Al Smith was vilified unmercifully when he ran for the presidency back in 1928. The popular four term governor of New York was an opponent of Prohibition and a progressive. He lost to Herbert Hoover who proceeded to lead the country head-long into the Great Depression.
Al Smith the Fourth was seated next to the podium where Trump was attacking Hillary. Hillary was seated on one side of Cardinal Dolan, and Trump was sitting on the other side with his mannequin wife, Melanie, next to him. It was clearly awkward for the portly Dolan to hear the vitriol pouring out of Trumps mushy mouth.
When I was in Edinburgh Scotland a year ago I met an interesting Glaswegian fellow in a bar called the Hebrides. He said his brother was a priest and worked for Cardinal Dolan in the New York Archdiocese. He said his brother liked Dolan, but confided that Dolan was a bit of a drunk; not only did Dolan care for his drink, he was also a glutton. While watching Dolan on TV dressed in his lavish Cardinal outfit, his red face puffy, and slightly inflamed, I was reminded of what my Glaswegian friend said about the Cardinal's flatulence as Dolan tilted ever so slightly on his overly large right ass cheek, and then seeing Hillary wince. I'm guessing Dolan has to weigh in at over three-hundred pounds. For much of the night it appeared from his grimacing and the rotating of his ass cheeks, Dolan was exploding methane willy nilly on his stoic companions.
The last ten minutes of Trumps stand-up act was his usual stump speech: Hillary is a crook; she should be in jail; she's a liar, etc. Hillary smiled. I doubt if there is anything he could say or do by now that would surprise her. She's tough. If she wasn't tough she would have folded her tent long ago and left Dodge.
When she spoke she was surprisingly funny. Whoever wrote her jokes deserves a lot of credit. Trump almost laughed a couple of time. When he grins his ultra white teeth look almost as real as the color of his dyed platinum blonde hair. When Hillary gave bestial Rudy Giuliani, who was sitting in the audience, a zinger he looked like he wanted to cut her heart out with a chain saw.
Sitting behind the podium amidst the sea of stuffed white shirts and white ties was a hot chick in a dress with plunging neckline that revealed a spectacular pair of tits. The great German Expressionist artist Otto Dix would have loved painting these grotesques.
I overslept this morning. I was an hour late and Buzz Kill had Tobin call to see if I was alive. The electricity went off a week ago and I don't know how to reset digital clock.
Street Jimmy was a no show.
Last Nights Al Smith Dinner
The Smell Of Doom And Disaster Descending!
I Pledge Allegiance To Nothing
This Should Be A Subject For A Painting
Rudy Giuliani Getting His Nuts Squeezed By Hillary
Cardinal Dolan Raising His Left Ass Cheek And Blasting Another Monster Fart!
Thursday, October 20, 2016
The third and final presidential debate was all we could have asked for and more. Bartender Kim and I made sure the Ale House juke box was turned off before seven. She made it clear to the customers assembled at the bar that we would watch the Cub game until eight and then switch over to the debate. Shortly before the debate Sexy Eve showed up with a box of truffles. A lot of people sneer at eating truffles while drinking beer. Not us.
Hillary was wearing a no nonsense white pants suit which I thought was an excellent choice. I believe she wore a similar outfit at the Democratic Convention. Trump wore his trademark blue suit and red tie. His blunt features were never blunter as he strode onto the stage and took his place behind the podium. Unlike the smiling Hillary , there was not even a hint of a smile on his bright orange mug. As expected there was no handshake. Trumps eyes seemed filled with vague misgivings as he listened to Hillary answer the first question. His left upper lip twitched slightly when it was his turn to speak. When he's debating Hillary he tends to speak with a nervous sniffle from deep within his nose.
His eyes grew slumberous as the evening wore on. If he had come to duke it out with Hillary, after a half an hour she had taken all the fight out of him. Her five days of preparation had paid off: She deftly pivoted from answering questions about Podesta's hacked emails to an attack on the Russian hackers who were "undermining an American election." Trump took the bait every time. Not only did he take the bait, he swallowed the hook, which eventually got tangled in his lower intestine. Toward the end of the debate the poor slob was bleeding profusely from every orifice in his repulsive body. I'm sure his handlers were in a state of shock. He missed one opening after another. It was like Ali versus a journeyman sparring partner. Hillary repeatedly executed what could best described as her version of the Ali shuffle during the last half of the ninety minute bout.
With a look that was not calculated to inspire confidence, Trump tried to defend his hero worship of Vladimir Putin. When Hillary called him "Putin's Puppet," he looked like he was going to cry and replied, "your the puppet." After Hillary gave it to him about not paying his taxes, as well as a number of his other shortcomings, he grabbed his mic with an impatient movement of his tiny hands and said, "what a nasty woman."
If the debate was a little league baseball game the slaughter rule would have been imposed after the first hour. The more he cowered the more Hillary eviscerated him. The expression on Hillary's face as she surgically snipped off what was left of his tiny testicles was one of cunning superiority. It was great theater and the crowd at the Ale House was enjoying every minute of it.
The moderator, Chris Wallace, did a commendable job. He's a Fox News hack, so it was a given that he'd be "fair and balanced." The final question was to Trump: "Will you accept the results of the election?" This was certainly an appropriate question given what Trump has been saying about the election being rigged since his precipitous collapse in the polls. Trump didn't disappoint: "I'm not sayin', I'll leave ya in suspense." This answer had to send shudders down what's left of the spines of the Republican leaders in the House and Senate. So much for the tradition of the peaceful transfer of power in the "worlds greatest democracy."
The pundits on both sides of the isle are worried about Trumps threats to unleash the pitchfork-torch crowd on the country. Trumps followers are the worst of the worst. Not only are they remarkably stupid people, they are easily instigated.
My favorite moment in the debate took place after it ended. Hillary literally skipped over to Chris Wallace, and shook his hand. She then, with a huge smile on her 69 year old face, did a victory lap while the petulant Trump remained frozen behind his podium. His eyes, more familiar to the rodent world, told the story. "The disgusting cunt just made me her bitch in front of a hundred million people. Me, Donald Trump; she made me her bitch! I've got my own plane, golf courses, gold toilets, and she just put me in a spandex outfit and lipstick. How the fuck did this happen?" He frowned. "I did what I was supposed to. I lied and said I was against a woman's right to choose. I denied climate change. I promised to put fascists on the Supreme Court, I promised everyone they could carry a machine guns, unless, of course, they were coming to one of my rallies…What more could I have said?"
When he finally walked out from behind the podium he cast a sidelong glance at his tormentor as she continued high-fiving her friends and family. As he pushed his way past his disheartened supporters his mushy face was contracted in an immense frown. He almost sprinted out of the hall without speaking to reporters.
The spin room was a joke. I only saw a few minutes of the Trump surrogates trying to clean up the stench their maladroit leader had just left for them. I only saw a few minutes of it because we turned the Cubs game back on. (The Cubs won.) The mood in the Ale House was one of jubilation. There was an attractive blonde woman sitting in the middle of the bar. When I offered her one of Sexy Eve's truffles she asked me how my leg was?
"How do you know about my leg."
"I read your blog. I can't wait to read what you say about the debate tomorrow."
She said her name was Ruth and she lives in Jefferson Park. It was her visit to the Ale House. Before I left I made her promise to come back soon. She said she would.
As I walked home I thought about what was probably going through Trumps mind as he jetted back to New York: prospects ruined; character lost; forsaken by friend and family; somebody was going to have to pay for this humiliation. Perhaps the entire country?
Wednesday, October 19, 2016
Tonight is the third and final debate between Hillary and Donald Tiny Hands.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl songs or the midnight blast,
Is that portentous phrase, I told you so.
But I did, dear reader, I most certainly did -- the Genius told you so a year ago.
Rooting for Tiny Hands in the primaries was fraught with danger, however, it has paid off handsomely just as I predicted it would. Knowing Hillary was a deeply flawed candidate, and aware she could only beat a couple of the nuttiest of the Republican Primary buffoons, I cheered for the orange man with the white eyes to prevail over his boring competitors.
Tonight, Tiny Hands has invited Barack's half brother to sit in the front row with the brain-damaged mother of one of the men who died at Benghazi. I guess Tiny Hands couldn't again prevail upon Bill Clinton's worn out harridan accusers after this weeks army of Trump accusers have marched before the TV camera's. Barack's half-brother is a pro Hamas nut-case. Barack was twisting Tiny Hands' orange nose yesterday. "Bitch, stop your whining, if you want to be president you need a thick skin, orange or otherwise…"
The moderator of tonights debate, Fox News' Chris Wallace, is a cartoon version of his more famous late father, Mike Wallace. He looks like someone took his fathers head and put it in a large vice. Wallace is one of that growing class of TV personalities whose talent (or lack of talent) can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any media outlet that would be impressed enough to hire them had it not been for their illustrious pedigrees. He is, however, a loose cannon. Because of his lack of intellect it's hard to predict what might come out of his goofy mouth. I assume Hillary has worked on a response to the recent dump of WikiLeak hacks. Her campaign CEO, John Podesta, is a lesson in anatomy. He's a gangly, loose-limbed, slouching fellow with an altogether unwholesome aspect. His tiny head looks like its been carved out of a cucumber. Podesta is a malignant prophesy of the type of people a Hillary administration will probably be filled with.
I'm sure Podesta is not pleased to have his private emails made public. What public official would? So far I'm amazed at how benign they are. Surely they have far more damning emails than those which have thus far been released. Julian Assange, the head of WikiLeaks, is presently holed up in the Ecuadorean Embassy in London. The Swedish Government wants to get their hands on the slithery Assange because of a couple of rape allegations. I would imagine Assange is getting a bit stir-crazy by now. I mean, how much fun can it be hanging out indefinitely in a tiny confined area with Ecuadorean diplomats? I personally would rather take my chances in a Swedish court. The two ladies accusing Assange of rape are not sympathetic victims. Each admitted they'd had consensual sex with the geeky Assange, but when they told him not to take his rubber off, he stuck it inside anyway. If I was on the jury I don't think I'd be overly sympathetic; once you get down to the short strokes, does no really mean no?
Yesterday the Ecuadorean officials pulled the plug on Assanges internet connections. Assange better pray that Trump pulls off a miracle because if Hillary becomes president he'll end up sleeping in the Ecuadorean embassy broom closet for the rest of his musty, airless life.
My guess is Trump will come at Hillary with everything he has. All Hillary has to do is remain calm. The Ale House will turn the Cub game off at eight to watch the debate. We will also turn off the juke box. It's who we are…It's what we do.
The Cubs are an interesting baseball team. They had the best record in the Majors this year, and on paper probably have the best players. It looked like the Genius had overestimated the value of the Cubs best hitter, Kyle Schwarber, when he tore his ACL this Spring. Even without Schwarber the Cubs broke out of the starting gate like Secretariat. They went into a brief swoon before the All Star Game, then got hot again for much of the summer. As I've tried to explain to my less-informed associates, unless you have a super team, sports tend to be a series of streaks. When you gamble on sports you try to catch a team in a hot streak or better yet, a bad streak, and then ride it. In baseball you want to get hot just before the playoffs. The Cubs bats have gone silent just when they are needed the most. This is when Schwarber would have really been helpful. As my late friend Art Klug used to counsel, "good pitching always beats good hitting." I would add that good pitching destroys bad hitting.
Last night the Cubs were shut out by the LA Dodgers for the second night in a row. Gentleman Lee, and I were the only people in the crowded Ale House watching the ball game. Cougar occasionally looked up from her iPhone to express her displeasure at the way the Cubs were succumbing to the red hot Dodgers. Hawkeye is the first Cub fan I know to raise the white flag of surrender. This is hardly surprising. Hawkeye represents everything that is objectionable about the Johnny come lately Cub fans. Pauly Woo Woo is another of these pretend fans. They couldn't tell you the names of five players on the team if you held a gun to their heads. Sure, there are some hardcore fans like Pub Crawl Liz, who bleed Cubby blue, but they are a minority.
So last night Hawkeye, who barely looked up from his crossword puzzle the entire game, shrugged his shoulders after the Cubs loss and said in his funeral directors voice, "we had a great season." Of course the Cubs are not out of it -- a win tonight evens the series. That said, a loss and it's pretty much over with Dodger super star pitcher Clayton Kershaw waiting in the wings. The Cubs manager, Maddon, is a better than average regular season manager. Unfortunately for the Cubs, he's a lousy playoff manager. For the second season in a row he let his immature players have a champagne celebration after they won the right to play in the National League Championship series. He tends to over-manage in the playoffs, doesn't shake up his lineup when they're not hitting, and is clueless when it comes to pitchers.
Yesterday I had a picnic with the Aficionado in the park behind the Contemporary Art Museum. Her crab cakes and calamari are to die for. Earlier in the day I had Tobin's potato soup which was also outstanding. Tobin doesn't think I should grocery shop for myself. "You don't know what you're doing. You always buy the wrong things, and you pay too much. " She said this when I asked her if she thought I should get a Costco card? "Let me shop for you." True, I'm a lousy shopper; I tend to forget things I need, but I buy lots of fruits and vegetables when I shop which is a good thing.
After our picnic Aficionado and I went into the museum. Although Tuesday is free day, the Aficionado stuffed a twenty in the jar by the entrance. When we were checking out the Calder mobiles she informed me she had a small Calder mobile. I then told her about meeting Calder's sister when I was living in Berkeley. "I was walking down Telegraph Avenue with Alan Temko. Temko, although a renowned architectural critic, also taught urban history courses at Cal. He was one of my favorite professors. When he spied two elderly women walking toward us he stopped them and made Calder's sister show me some of the jewelry her famous brother made for her. After I walked the Aficionado back to her house, I went home and took a nap.
This pretty much sums it up
Tuesday, October 18, 2016
Like most one dimensional men, the current Chicago mayor, Rahm Emanuel, lacks aesthetic taste. Case in point is the travesty he just allowed to be perpetrated upon Chicago's Jackson Park, the soon to be home of Barack's presidential library. Yoko Ono, who's described in the Sun Times as "artist-singer", unveiled her latest monstrosity yesterday. The grotesque series of defilements are entitled, "Sky Landing." Twelve large steel "lotus petals" are "emerging" out of the ground. It is hailed as her "first permanent public installation in the U.S…" The word permanent is what sends chills up ones spine. This is not the horror the Lucas Museum would have been had it been built next to Soldier Field. Thanks to The Friends Of The Park, short guy Star Wars creator George Lucas, wasn't able to erect his monument to himself on Chicago's lakefront. The design of that horror resembled a colossal pile of dinosaur shit.
Yoko Ono has the squeaky, grating voice reminiscent of the noises one hears emanating from a machine shop. Not only does she lack the dove like cooing which makes a fellow admire the female sex, her wrinkled, cadaverous face does nothing to enhance her questionable charms. John Lennon married this creature. When Mark David Chapman assassinated Lennon in New York in 1980, Yoko was standing next to her husband. Why Chapman didn't use his remaining bullets on her is a question that demands an answer. With her husband dead Yoko instantly became one of the richest women in the world. Soon the shrill nasal tone coming from inside her tiny nose was everywhere. For a brief moment she actually foisted what she called "songs" on the public. Her singing voice sounded like an overworked vacuum cleaner. The critics predictably showed her no mercy. After her singing career imploded she decided to become an artist.
In the Sun Time's article Yoko says the so-called artwork is a, "place where the sky and earth meet and create a seed to learn about the past and come together to create a future of peace and harmony, with nature and each other." I'm sure the chirpy little poseur will forgive us if we don't hold our breath while waiting for peace and harmony in this world. I think in a short time these twelve eyesore's will hopefully come together as a place for vandalism and graffiti.
The article then goes on to make the preposterous assertion that "Sky Landing" is part of a $29 million investment in returning the park to the original vision of landscape artist Frederick Law Olmsted. Anyone who knows anything about Olmsted's vision for Chicago's wonderful network of parks has to laugh at this absurd statement. I really think some creative prankster types familiar with the internet should instigate a graffiti contest centering on the large sardine can lids now littering Jackson Park. I think Olmsted would have liked this idea. Let some really creative people express themselves rather than a self indulgent rich-bitch lacking in both taste and aesthetic judgement.
If anyone was curious about how Donald Tiny Hands was going to handle losing to a girl, he's spent the last five days making himself clear what his strategy is. "The election is rigged. Everyone is against me. If I lose it will be the end of the world as we know it." His escort wife who'd been in seclusion since she was caught plagiarizing Michelle Obama's speech, broke her silence yesterday and said, although she didn't care for her husbands taped pussy conversation, it was just "boys talk," and all the women accusers are lying. Fawning Anderson Cooper didn't ask her about her husbands walking in on naked beauty contestants and then bragging about it on Howard Stern. Melanie went on to say that Shorty Bush and Howard Stern tricked Tiny Hands into saying "dirty things." She also said she was "strong," and the harshness of the campaign wasn't bothering her. I'm sure she is comforted by her pre-nup agreement, and the child support she will be given for little Barren Trump after their soon to be announced divorce.
Street Jimmy said the Sheriff was tossing people out of Marshall Field Apartments yesterday.
"How many people?"
Jimmy shrugged, "lot's. They had busses an' lots of police cars an' moving trucks. They don' wan' black folks in the neighborhood."
"Where you going to buy your crack after they toss all the dealers out of Marshall Field?"
"I find a place."
When I told Jimmy Ms. Cougar thinks the tough looking black girl he was arguing with the other night punched him in the eye Jimmy smiled. "I 'poligized to her. She used to be a nice lookin' lady."
"Yeah, I can see that. So did she punch you in the eye."
"Uh, uh, I fell off my scooter."
Jimmy continues to be upset by the influx of new bums overwhelming "his" neighborhood. "They try an' be friends with me. I tell 'em I be the Lone Ranger. They try an' shake my hand…I tell 'em I don' shake no hands with people's I don' know. Does you shake hands with peoples you don' know?"
"Of course I do, its common courtesy."
Jimmy wanted to know more about Trump shooting all the drug addicts once he's elected president.
"This is nothing new, Jimmy. When Mao took over in China he gave all the addicts two weeks to quit drugs and then he killed them. That's probably where the Philippine asshole got the idea. If I were you, Jimmy, this would be a cause for anxiety."
Jimmy said he wasn't worried.
Monday, October 17, 2016
Locker Room Full Of Deplorable's
Street Jimmy is convinced the big-ball-of-orange-blubber is not going to be elected. Although Jimmy doesn't pay much attention to politics, ever since I explained to him Trump wants to not only send all Mexicans back to Mexico, but all black people with criminal records back to Africa, Jimmy has become more focused on the upcoming election. Not focused enough, however, to have registered to vote. This morning he once again expressed confidence in Trump getting his ass kicked by Hillary. "He ain't gonna win!"
"How do you know for sure?"
"'Cause peoples ain't gonna vote for him 'cause he rape ladies."
"Racists love him, Jimmy. They love him because he hates black people and Mexicans…"
"Everyone ain't racists. There's white peoples tha' don' believe tha' shit."
"True, however, the only way Trump can be beaten is if everyone votes, and a lot of white people are too stupid, or too lazy to vote, which means all black people and Mexican people need to vote. You are a perfect example of the type of assholes who won't vote. Last month you told me voting doesn't matter…"
Buzz Kill, who was sitting at the end of the bar reading the papers this morning chimed in: "Jimmy, in two months you might be on a boat going to Africa!"
Well meant though this observation was, it seemed to upset Jimmy. "I ain't goin' to no Africa on no boat." As was his custom when faced with unpleasant news , Jimmy threatened violence. "I fuck 'em up good if they tries to put me on a boat…"
"Jimmy, I think a greater cause for anxiety is what Trump said he's going do to drug addicts, no doubt you've heard what they're doing to drug addicts in the Philippines…"
"Wha' they be doin'?"
"The new president is a real asshole, I think his name is Duharte. He's been having the army and police round up all the addicts, then he lines them up against a wall and shoots them."
Knitting his brow, and pursing his lips with an air of attention, Jimmy asked where the Philippines were?
"They're a series of islands not that far from China. We have military bases there. It's a very big country and the asshole president kills a couple of thousand addicts a day. So Trump says that's a good idea and says when he's president he's going to line up all the addicts and do what they're doing in the Philippines."
"He can 't do that, he try tha' shit an' we fuck him up!"
Buzz Kill was skeptical, "Jimmy, how you going to fight the army, they've got tanks, and planes, and helicopters."
"We fight back. We'll snatch their tanks…"
"Jimmy, well meant as your plan might be, I have to respectively point out you don't know how to drive a tank - "
"I learn." Jimmy seemed extremely annoyed. The more he thought about being rounded up by the Trump thugs, the more violent were his words. He would lead an army of drug addicts and he had little doubt they would prevail. These words were not lightly spoken. The look on his face was meant to emphasize his determination.
Donald Tiny Hands was not Jimmy's only problem. Friday night I was summoned outside the Ale House by a Street Jimmy surrogate. Not only was Jimmy stoned but he had a large, menacing lump under his right eye.
"Jimmy, what happened to your eye? You look like you've suffered a serious blow from a blunt instrument."
"Some white boys jumped me." While he was describing how he had been accosted Cougar studied Jimmy's damaged cheek studiously.
"Jimmy," she said, "you need to get your eyes looked at."
When Jimmy asked for car fare to get to the hospital I said, "Jimmy, I can walk to Northwestern in twenty-minutes, you can get there on your scooter in ten, you don't need car fare. You really should go because if your retina's torn you won't be able to see in a month out of that eye…"
Jimmy, who was clearly more concerned with getting money for crack, scooted away.
Saturday his story changed. He was no longer saying he was jumped by white boys: "I was riding my scooter on Wells Street an' I hits a bump and fell on my head. The scooter gots little wheels an' when you goin' real fast an' you hits a bump you goes flyin' over the handle bars."
"Then why did you say you got jumped by white boys?"
"I jus' say it 'cause I wasn't thinkin' too clear …"
"My guess is you weren't jumped by white boys, and you didn't fall off your scooter, it's something in between. I bet you got in a fight with another crack head and he kicked your ass."
"Why you say tha'?"
"Because you always lie."
By Monday morning the story had changed once more. Todays story seemed more credible. Jimmy had indeed fallen off his scooter on Wells Street. After he fell a car full of white boys laughed at him. Irked by their laughter Jimmy's lashed out at them verbally. "I tol' 'em if they gots outa their car I was gonna fuck 'em up good, 'cause they be racists."
Friday night was like old times at the Ale House. Pub Crawl Liz and Goat Girl came in with a "lesbian friend" after the Cubs victory over the Dodgers. They'd been watching the game at Marge's. When Cougar texted Liz about why they were watching the game at Marge's she made a disparaging remark about the Genius' anti-Cubs sentiments. A few minutes later the Bibliophile and her hubby walked in. It had been close to two months since I'd seen them in the Ale House. Bibliophile was polite, but rather cool toward me. When I offered her my seat at the crowded bar she accepted. I had been sitting next to Ukraine Mike, and within minutes the two of them were in a deep conversation. Around the corner of the bar her hubby was practically dry-humping Lucy. Cougar seemed intrigued by all the drama going on around her. Goat Girl is extraordinarily affectionate and alternated hugging and stroking both Cougar and I. Cougar nudged me. Ukraine Mike and Bibliophile were now swapping spit. It was like watching a tennis match. On one side of the court hubby and Lucy were getting down to the short strokes while on the other side of the court Mike and Bibliophile were lip-locked.
When Bibliophile finally removed her tongue from Mike's mouth she smiled at me innocently and said, "so how have you been, Bruce."
"If you read my blog you'd know exactly how I've been."
She proceeded to point out in a few well chosen words that she no longer reads my blog.
"I'm not sure, I just don't."
I watched Anthony's show on China last night. I'm not sure what part of China he was in. He brought his pal, restauranteur Eric Repart, with him. The theme of the show was testing the limits of Eric's ability to eat scorching hot Szechwanise food. Eric, being a good sport, gave it a go, but he was soon sweating profusely, and at times seemed disoriented. Not only was there a lot of amazing eating going on, but there was also plenty of drinking. After the show I resolved to go to Chinatown and have dinner soon.
Saturday, October 15, 2016
Watching Donald Tiny Hands on TV yesterday was a fun way to spend an autumn afternoon. I was reminded of what George Bernard Shaw said about writing a play: "My method is to take the utmost trouble to find the right thing to say, and then to say it with the utmost levity." I doubt if Trump has read much Shaw, yet he certainly has a similar philosophy. Having found himself up to his orange neck in shit, Trump resorted to levity. "You think I'd pick this lying bitch to finger fuck? Give me a break. Look at her. I don't think so…" The fact that one of these women was thirty years older now than when he accosted her on the airplane was of no matter to the man with the dyed platinum blonde hair. By the end of the day Trump's henchmen had produced a solitary witness to back up Trumps claims of innocence. They must have been in panic mode since Trumps hapless, floundering VP choice, Mike Pence, had promised witness' to back Trump up in "just a couple of hours."
The solitary witness, a stubby looking Brit named Gilbert Thorpe claimed he was on the same flight as Trump and Ms. Leeds thirty years ago. Thorpe prefaced his defense of Trump by saying he had a photographic memory. "He never touched her." The interesting thing about the now forty year old Thorpe is he made news in 2014. How? By claiming he procured underage boys for sex parties with members of the British Parliament. Certainly this is a gold star witness if there ever was one.
Trump seemed to gain confidence from his adoring, fawning, fatuous followers.
Trumps defense was unusual for a politician. Instead of bringing a dutiful wife in front of the camera like most disgraced politicians do after they've been caught with their dicks in the wrong pussy, and saying "I'm sorry," Trump decided to wing it. I doubt very much if his ex-escort , plagiarist wife would have participated in the forgiving spouse routine with Tiny Hands. So Trump improvised, and it was great theater. "These woman are all liars. The fix is in. The Clinton's are paying them to lie. I'm suing the New York Times. Maybe I'll have some bitches lie about Bill Clinton…" Although this was compelling, his attacks on his accusers attractiveness was frosting on the orange cake. "Look at them! I don't think sooo! Trust me, believe me."
If I was advising him I would have had him read a Lord Byron poem to his adoring crowds:
And where are they? and where art thou,
My country? On thy voiceless shore
The heroic lay in tuneless now --
The heroic bosom beats no more!
And must thy lyre, so long divine,
Degenerate into hands like mine?
The now "unshackled" Trump promised to go after Bill Clinton and Hillary in the third and final debate for the way they treated the women that accused Bill of sexually assaulting them. Hillary's crime was attacking their credibility even though there is scant evidence she did any such thing. Unfortunately, Trump can't play that card now because he is presently doing what he accused them of doing. I realize Trump doesn't appear to understand the word irony. He's a simple man and avoids complexity. But even coarse brute that he is, he must understand on some level the contradictions of his words and actions.
As the day wore on and more women (attractive women) stepped foreword, Trumps surrogates became scarce on the TV shows. The ones that did appear seemed forlorn. There was little solace to be drawn from what the new accusers were claiming Tiny Hands did to them. A few of the surrogates went so far as to confess that even if the accusations of sexual assault were true, they'd stick by Tiny Hands.
The Alt Right Movement is just a euphemism for White Nationalist or KKK. Trumps campaign CEO, a fat-faced slob named Bannion, was head of Brietbart before he joined Trump. Brietbart is the voice of the Alt Right movement and by the end of yesterday it was unanimously agreed upon by the liberal pundits that Trump had gone full fledged Alt Right. The way he (Trump) was being treated by the press "was more than any white man billionaire could be expected to endure." Nothing could have been more politely phrased. Fox News is in full panic mode. They want to spend all their time on Hillary's emails, but nobody cares. An increasing number of Fox News women are jumping ship. I think the making fun of the accusers looks was the last straw for these right-wing bimbos. After all, their rapidly diminishing looks are all they have and then the ash heap.