So Donald Trump is president-elect.
So Donald Trump is president-elect.
Nothing has meaning.
Because nothing has meaning, America’s favorite winking Tourettes’ sufferer Sarah Palin interviewed America’s favorite decomposing pumpkin Donald Trump.
It was an interviewing tour de force. Palin used words in an order that somewhat resembled sentences to fluff Trump’s presidential scepter, and Trump continued to resemble an orange-hued blobfish.
As expected, the interview made
our inevitable decline more inevitable America great again.
So you don’t have to watch it and shave years off your life like I have, I condensed it to the highlights.
I don’t know about you, but I am suffering from Trump Fatigue™. I would really like to not write anymore about him so America, if you could stop considering him as a real presidential candidate as opposed to a deflated nut sack, I would appreciate it.
Donald Trump, America’s favorite sentient hemorrhoid, is on the cover of Time magazine. According to Time’s editorial staff, several tag lines were tested out to see which best encapsulated the essence of a Trump presidency:
In the video interview, Trump continued to hypnotize the electorate with his special brand of jingoism and his hair confetti.
He pontificated on why he was a better candidate than Hillary Clinton, the likely Democratic nominee:
He spoke of a broken, troubled country and how he was just the guy who could fix it.
They were forced to go with a secondary shot.
Oh, bless his little orange, puffy face!
Donald Trump may seek the GOP nomination for govenor of New York.
This is news, people.
In the same way, it was news when Donald Trump declared he was running for president those 4,001,321 times. Or when he fashioned that ridiculous hair mop he wears on his head from wood shavings and a can of KRAFT® Easy Cheese.
The frequent-bankruptcy-filing “billionaire” says he is considering running because he
is a paranoid delusional narcissist who believes he farts gold nuggets believes he can win.
Trump was at some Republican fundraiser on Friday to
talk about the dangers of over-tanning prove that a person can still communicate even when it’s clear one’s brain is disconnected from one’s spinal cord.
I’m not a fan of Gov. Andrew Cuomo. I voted for him only because the other guy wanted to convert prisons into “welfare dorms.” Now if Trump seriously gets the nomination, and that is a big bloated if, I will once again be forced to cast a vote for a politician who routinely denigrates my profession as an educator–as if we are all educators at Donald Trump University.
At the $100-per-person event, Trump outlined his platform. He would turn New York into the energy capitol. He has volunteered to act as the state-wide gas bag. He supports hydrofracking and wants to repeal the NY SAFE act, which requires ammunition dealers to do background checks and the creation of registry of assault weapons. It also requires mental health professionals to report credible threats made by a mental health patient.
Trump stated that he himself is licensed to carry a gun.
I wonder if I can find that number to make a report.
More importantly Trump touted his number one issue–how to stay relevant beyond his woman parade pageant and his nonCelebrity Apprentice snoozefest.
I’ve been having difficulty writing lately, and now I’ve finally figured out why:
I possess a vagina.
It gets in the way of everything. When I’m attempting to squeeze a big thought out of my tiny woman brain, my vagina interrupts the process with demands for chocolate. When I attempt to hold a pen using my weakly woman arms, my vagina shrieks about being too fat. When I try to write a post on Speaker7, my vagina threatens to set itself on fire.
It’s no wonder the ladies get paid less, amirte fellas. Up top.
David Gilmour gets it. He sees no value in teaching the drivel excreted by ladybits in his Big Dick Writers 101 seminar.
“Women be stupid,” Gilmour laments.
That’s a slight paraphrase. What he actually said was much worse:
“I say I don’t love women writers enough to teach them, if you want women writers go down the hall. What I teach is guys. Serious heterosexual guys. F. Scott Fitzgerald, Chekhov, Tolstoy. Real guy-guys. Henry Miller. Philip Roth,” Gilmour huffs whilst sticking his enormous plumbing into the biggest glory hole one has ever seen.
Gilmour is able to stop masturbating over his copy of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer to give props to lady mouthpiece Virginia Woolf, stating “she made a mean bundt cake.” (slight paraphrasing)
O Captain! My Captain! …Shit! I’m trying to stand on a desk to salute this brilliant professor, but I’ve got my period and whole slew of laundry that needs a-washing.
By the way, what the blazing fuck is a woman writer anyway?
I’m answering my own question:
One who writes with her vagina.
This profile in misogyny made me harken back to my days of playing drums in a rock band that no one–apart from my parents and that guy at the bar–ever heard. I can’t tell you how many times I heard:
You’re one of the best female drummers.
I don’t know. . . is that a thing? Did male drummers have some sort of advantage by being able to use their penis to bang on the floor tom?
All great questions, but too taxing for my smaller, less interesting brain.
My vagina’s tired of writing anyways and is angrily demanding chocolate.
I look fat.
Shit! I just turned off all the guys who were reading this. Did I learn nothing from Josh Aiello’s seminal article “3 Words He Never Wants To Hear You Say?”
Josh decided to share his infinite wisdom about lady diarrhea-mouth with Yahoo!Shine, a women’s site about all things ladies like lipstick, turkey basters and weak upper arms. Yahoo!Shine was created by mixing three parts Mountain Dew, two parts Massengill and five parts bottomless sadness.
According to Josh, a woman’s…oh excuse me…a girl’s lament about her bulk is the equivalent of a dude cutting off someone’s head times 10. Let him explain:
“To guys, these words are the Holy Grail of annoying things girls say, the abracada bra of instantaneous mood killers. . .”
That is some good analogying. It’s like the King Turd of nonsensical analogies.
I envision Josh looks like this:
Now you may be thinking, how does Josh know these are the three worst words a woman can say? Wouldn’t “I love Hitler” or “Equal pay now” or “I hate your writing” (I know that’s four, but my brain is fat) be worse?
Josh did some scientific analysis of this phenomenon by interviewing his wolf pack at Buffalo Wild Wings.
Adam, or A-dawg as I like to call him, says it’s like a downer because if she’s talking, she’s unable to continue the blowjob. “She’s either fishing for compliments, she doesn’t like herself, or she actually has gained weight. . .”
Total boner killer
I mean, jesus christ, girls, you with your body issues, which are in no way the fault of a culture and media that value women for their looks and boobies. You are almost distracting me from reading the latest Us Weekly on whose body is definitely not beach-ready.
Adam is this brah by the way:
And the guy is helpless because once you say it, all he can see is your fat mouth spitting out fat words in between crumbs of Entenmann’s. Let Josh set the scene:
I once dated a really pretty girl who was convinced she was overweight. She told me she thought she was fat so often that when my parents came to visit, I didn’t introduce her to them. Why? Because I doubted whether what I saw when I looked at her was what other, more objective people saw.
Wow. Such a powerful story and what an amazing act of courage. It reminds me of the story of Harriet Tubman when she finally decided to make her escape from slavery. Harriet knew it was only a matter of time she would be sold away from her family and husband John. She tried to get John to go with her. “I won’t go with you Harriet,” he said bravely. “You look really fat right now.” Courage.
So what’s a lassie to do?
Incidentally the three words I would never want to hear from Josh are these:
“I got published.”
Truer words have never been spoken.
Bland looks really red. He is getting ready or red-dy to meet his concubines’ families. Zing! I’m here all week.
AshLee, of the interestingly capitalized name, has been living for this moment or some such nonsense. Yes… “Hey mom and dad! Come meet this man who is also meeting three other sets of moms and dads and revel in the reality! The reality of it all!”
AsHleE thinks Bland is the man “to protect my heart.” I think I should be drunk. Why am I not drunk?
aShlEe’S been thinking about this day “since I was 3 years old.” What the fuck did she just say?
They eat a normal dinner with aShleE’s PaRenTs at a kitchen table stuck awkwardly on the back lawn.
“Bland is, like, making out with other girls and then he, like, makes out with me. And, like, mom, like, do you remember, when I was, like, 4, and you, like, read Peter Rabbit, and I was, like, do you think I’ll ever meet my Mr. MacGregor? And, like, I’m, like, here he is. Like?” ASHLee rambles on at the greatest luncheon she envisioned when she was 5.
AsHleE’s dad looks like a porcupined-version of Cliff Clavin.
We’re now in Seattle with Catherine and her “journey.” Bland catches a fish in the Seattle Fish Market and promptly makes out with it. It’s so spontaneous or incredibly staged.
Bland uses the word “always” a lot to describe how awesome his relationship is with Catherine. “We’re always really boring.” “We’re always suck.” “We’re always contributing to the decline of the universe.”
This is the greatest love story since that commercial I saw about Fiber One granola bars.
Catherine’s sisters exhibit brain function: “You seem like you’re trying to convince yourself that you like him.”
Next stop: Linddddsseeeyyy’s hometown in somewhere Missouri. Her dad’s a two-star general so this means something for The Bachelor that I find too boring to try to comprehend.
Bland puts on an army turtleneck while Lindddsseeyy vocal fries orders at him. It makes me wish that a meteor would crash into my face.
On Friday, I watched the movie The Sessions. I highly recommend it. It’s been so long since I’ve watched a movie that made me feel something and made me actually care for the people in the story.
This episode of The Bachelor is the opposite of that feeling.
Lindssseyy’s house has a gun/spice rack. Her mom also vocal fries.
Bland asks for Lindsey’s father’s permission to penetrate his property and *yawn*…story about paratrooping and I’ve gone deaf and sure, here’s your blessing and my lack of caring is like that time I went paratrooping.
There’s an hour left.
I would like your blessing to not watch the second hour.
Thanks for nothing.
Now we’re in Desiree’s sweet hick hometown of LA.
They meet each other in spandex because. . . LA.
Time to meet the fam. An ex-boyfriend shows up instead. He declares his love. “I’ve texted you,” he facebooks. And it feels…LA. Not like this guy is trying to break into acting and shows up at an opportune moment to get his ass-face on TV or anything.
I think I’m going to bed.
But then I will miss why I titled this post the way I did.
Oh it’s a joke. And it’s funny?
Her family shows up. Her mother seems high. Desiree’s brother Nate is the one who sayeth: “This is, like, stupid almost.”
Wrong, bro. It’s, like, all stupid.
Some jerk said it is always better to give than receive.
That jerk obviously was never the recipient of a lamp with the Serenity Prayer etched into the glass. I received one of those as a high school graduation present from a boy I dated for two months, and it was not at all awkward.
People do seem to be in the giving mood. Every blog I click on seems to be giving something away to its loyal readership.
I feel I should be giving away something too, but what do I have to offer?
My facial hair is paltry although I do have a single hair that grows out of my neck and possesses the wirey resilience of a pube. Is that something people want?
Okay. I can’t really make anything although I did draw the turd picture for my Turd of the Week™ segment.
I suppose I could glue this image onto a roll of toilet paper for some lucky reader.
I really have little else. I am getting my tonsils removed in a few days, but Hugo has already staked claim to them for some nefarious purposes.
Hugo…hmmm. People seem to love them some Hugo. I’ve got it!
Okay, I’m pretty famous or I create the illusion of fame by sending myself fan letters. How would you, dear reader, like to appear in this blog space in an interview conducted by me and Hugo?
All you have to do is give a reason why you think you are worthy of a Hugo interview in the comments.
Hugo, no. Please don’t do that. That is completely unnecessary. Just a simple comment is fine. I will attempt to interview everyone who responds, not in the same blog post because that can get kind of lengthy, but over the course of 2013.
Remember, I used to work as a journalist so I’m pretty good. I once was assigned to cover the local Memorial Day parade and I asked such questions like “So…why did you come to the parade?”
Expect that level of professionalism.
Your interview along with a write up and link to your blog will appear on Speaker7 to the delight of the human and puppet world.
Hugo, anything to add?
The deadline to respond is Dec. 17.
I may have mentioned in the past that I work with young children. I teach them about books and media literacy in this room called a library, a place that has been made obsolete by the Internetz.
I did a lesson today on the differences between fiction and nonfiction. I read two stories about ducks. One was about real mallard ducks and one was about a duck that wore underwear. Whenever I said underwear, the kids laughed uproariously as if it was Showtime at the Apollo. I killed it, people. I killed.
One little bugger decided the show needed to be about him. He rolled around on the floor like a flounder plucked from the water. He whimpered and whined and refused my entreaties to “act like a kindergartener”–my polite way of saying “get your fucking act together, dude.”
But all appeals to reason and logic went unheeded, and the lesson ended with the little “angel” running around, knocking over books and screaming.
In short, he sucked.
And he reminded me of somebody.
Two people actually.
I realize this kid has a bright future ahead of him as a political pundit and/or loudmouthed shit-spewer. He reminded me of money-bags consultant and Stay Puft Marshmallow Man stand-in Karl Rove who had a bit of his own meltdown on Fox News.
See Karl Rove had convinced a handful of gazillionaires to put their gazillions in Romney-supported ads to swing the election to Romney. And now he has to explain why he sucks. Two words: pork jowls.
The cutie patootie also reminded me of perennial bankruptcy-filer and perennial Turd of the Week™ Donald Trump.
Trump took to the twit-waves and tweeted moronic ramblings about revolution and bad combovers.
“This election is a total sham and a travesty. We are not a democracy.”
“I am completely irrelevant.”
Tantrum city, people.
The thing is, the five-year-old kind of has an excuse because he’s five and even then, he’s way too old to be having the kind of tantrum he exhibited in the library today.
Those other two? Well, they’re just terrible.
Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is the eighth post. If you don’t like it, she will throw an epic tantrum.
One might say criticizing the president for responding too quickly to Hurricane Sandy is partisan hackery at its best.
But when that critic is the poster child of one of the most botched relief efforts in recent U.S. history, that critic floats to the level of turd superstar, otherwise known as Turd of the Week™.
Michael “heckuva job, Brownie” Brown took Obama to task for holding a press conference the day before the storm hit.
Apparently it’s way better to deal with the mess after it happens. The Bush Administration waited a good amount of time before noticing much of the Gulf Coast was underwater from Hurricane Katrina in August 2005. In fact the day after the levees fell in New Orleans, President Bush was quoted as saying “New Orleans dodged a bullet.” Once they realized things were grim, they responded by not responding. Brown, a former supervisor of horse judges and then current head of the Federal Emergency Management Agency, “led” the relief effort.
Two weeks later, Brown resigned in disgrace.
In the storm’s aftermath, Brown, like much of Louisiana, seemed to be in over his head.
“Can I quit now? Can I go home?” (2005 Speaker7’s reply: Yes, and take the entire Bush Administration with you.)
And emails about FEMA attire:
At the Congressional hearings on Katrina a year later, Brown pointed the finger-of-blame at everyone including a little boy scout who was visiting the Capitol for the first time ever after selling the most popcorn balls in his troop. When members of Congress demanded he admit his culpability in the colossal fuckery, he yelled like a two-year-old.
Or what I meant to write is it makes sense that he won my weekly turd award because…cheese and crackers, Michael Brown, why the flipping hell do you think anyone wants to hear your take on this?
Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is the third post. It is a post about turds. There may be many more due to the overabundance of turds. Would you like to read about something other than turds this month? Then leave a suggestion in the comments.