Wednesday, May 24, 2017

Dare to have dreams. And strive to achieve them.


The dawn of a golden age of atheism

Ah, America's modern-day Kennedys: dynamic thinkers and style icons brimming with youthful idealism and the courtly-but-joyful appearance of domestic marital bliss. Melania keeps the world fashion dialogue in a perpetual state of abuzzment with her signature freshness and coy irony; she wears Armani to a soup kitchen and then the Old Navy Dowager CollectionTM to the Vatican. I think I could totally date her stylist. Ivanka gets points for versatility; her outfit goes effortlessly from afternoon beatings at her Amish sweatshop to a hamster funeral to the Vatican to her nut job (oops -- NIGHT job) as a chimney sweep, and then that corpse sneeze of a veil doubles smartly as a hairnet for her morning shift at the cafeteria in one of Jared's tenements. Donald -- impish, spirited Donald -- would show up to his own funeral (wouldn't THAT be fun?) looking this rakish and disheveled in a tie as crooked as his integrity, a (Saudi? the picture is too small to see for sure) flag pin, workingman's hands bruised from tireless hours perfecting his stroke (and not, as those poorly shot videos seem to imply, from being playfully swatted away by his third (and counting!) wife's bediamonded hands), and a grin as out of place as a shipment of pro-American-jobs hats made in China. We are truly in a golden age that spans the continents from the hotel rooms of Russia to the gilded towers of New York, and this royal family brings a level personal, human connection to everyone rich or poor or especially poorer like no one has ever seen.

Tuesday, May 23, 2017

So come on in

Among other characters, I play a bartender named Gregor in the Revival Theatre Company's Victor/Victoria. This my little gay wicker bar covered with most of my barwear, which I pretend to fill and serve and retrieve and wash and re-serve to pretty much half of the cast before the opening number is over. Don't tell my parents, but I'm pretty sure I do more dishes in one song in the show than I do in a whole month at home.

There is nothing sacred about you

You say stuff just to say stuff, don't you? You make meaningless, grandiloquent statements that you hope sound presidential and that you also hope nobody notices belie the lies and impulsivities of your actions. You are an inconsequential accident of evolution and education who by the nonsensical vicissitudes of sociopolitics have risen to a level of prominence and power that is thankfully tempered by your gross ineptitude at life. You are an embarrassment and a horror to all that is decent and educated and true in the collected populations of the planet you'd willingly destroy for your own gain if you could only summon the coherency to figure out how. And you blithely insist on proving it day after day, lie after lie, tweet after tweet.

Keeping up the scent of appearances

Happiness is discovering that the person before you in the gym shower left a bottle of body wash there and you borrow some and instead of the usual Uninterrupted Stream scent of your own soap you get to spend the day smelling like Hyacinth Bouquet. Or something.

The sun's out. The skies look to be clear. It might as well not be winter anymore.


Monday, May 22, 2017

Survey says ...

A Hughe compliment

So tonight after my nephew's concert, one of the cool kids -- who ended up being the son of one of my high-school friends -- ran up to me and called me Wolverine. Which is better than running up to me to call me a hearse, I guess. I used to get called Wolverine a lot, and though I still don't see it, I will never turn down a date with Hugh Jackman. I mean a comparison to him. I will never turn down A COMPARISON TO Hugh Jackman. (Call me!)

Oh, Alma Mater Washington ...

For over 50 years -- which, according to some sources, is longer than I've been alive -- the choirs of the Washington High School vocal department have assembled for a combined final concert each May that celebrates the year in music, highlights the best of the school-year repertoire and sends the departing seniors out into the world with one triumphant final evening of singing. Literally. At the end of the concert, the alumni join the existing choirs for the time-honored "Warrior Chant" and then the concert closes with the gorgeous "Alma Mater" where -- after the lyric "our classmates will be gone" -- the seniors depart from the choir on the third verse, walk down the aisle AND LITERALLY LEAVE US. It was cool and exciting when I was a senior. But tonight my nephew will be doing it and it's not funny anymore.

It. Will. Be. Heart-wrenching.

I don't cry much. As in ever. I don't cry ever. But I am right now. And the concert hasn't even started.

This is gonna be rough.

Tired! Eva? Tired?


Sunday, May 21, 2017

Orb backward is bro 

Everything's just wonderful!

Didja do anything productive with the students, Melania? Share knowledge? Celebrate cultures? Offer tips on contouring or gold-digging? Or was it just all about you having a wonderful time?

Ya know, your man-boy husband does the same thing in his tweets: He always reports that he has "good meetings" with people as though that were newsworthy or valuable information to share with the public. He never reports topics discussed, commonalities found, diplomacies achieved ... just the relentless goodness of every meeting he has. It's like neither of you has critical thinking skills, the ability to interpret experiences or shape narratives, a useful education, or even shame over the fact that of all the things that happen in your glamorous, influential, tireless-public-servant lives, all you can ever seem to come up with when you decide Hey! I should put this on Twitter! is that your meetings were good ... or to your great fortune today, wonderful.

If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were both pointless, uneducated, narcissistic, tone-deaf hypocrites who suck the blood of taxpayers and sleep on beds of dead children. But we all know that's not true. As you told us in your tweet today, all you do with children is have a wonderful time with them. And that's just wonderful!

Man-boy is like Hallmark

He has a cherished old tweet for every occasion.

"Saudi Arabia and the United Arab Emirates will reportedly pledge $100 million toward a fund for women entrepreneurs that was built by Ivanka Trump."
--The Hill, May 21, 2017


Remember when President Obama was VILIFIED for:

• Arugula
• Flag pin
• Tan suit
• Mustard
• Chewing gum
• Private schools
• Healthy eating initiatives
• Michelle's bare arms
• Being black
• Oops! Did I just say being black?
• Overcoming a proudly obstructionist Congress to provide affordable healthcare for millions of Americans
• Being black

Saturday, May 20, 2017

And by "meaningful" you mean "meaningless"


Your dad literally tried to ban an entire religion from our country. To refresh your selective, delusional, self-serving memory, he demanded "a total and complete shutdown of Muslims entering the United States." Which is the exact OPPOSITE of "promotion of religious tolerance globally."

Either your entire family is stupid or you all desperately hope that what's left of your moral and intellectual swamp of a base is.

Don't come back from your trip, Ivanka. Any of you. You're not good enough to call yourselves Americans.

Friday, May 19, 2017

Every Kollusion Begins With Kushner

#KickYouAllInTheNutsJob

You know how sometimes you park somewhere and you get trapped in your car listening to a song you love?

I'm trapped in my car right now listening to NPR list this week's day-by-day, sometimes hour-by-hour lies, machinations and appalling scandals that spilled out of the man-boy administration and its expanding, fetid orbit. It's exhausting. And infuriating. And I feel like I need to know what our country is up against so I can't stop listening.

You know what I like to do? Hate you.

"My big foreign trip"? "That's what I like to do"? You're a president, not a foreign-exchange student to Mexican finger-painting school.

Thursday, May 18, 2017

My most fervent wishes:

1. You crash and burn HARD and FAST in the searing fire of your million delusionally arrogant lies before you do any lasting or permanent damage to our country.

2. You continue to humiliate yourself and your party to the cataclysmic end of your crash-and-burn through the willful ignorance, laughable ineptitude and unhinged, desperate ranting you insist on calculatedly broadcasting for all searchable eternity on social media and self-satisfiedly trumpeting every time you try to fake your way through a coherent sentence in front of the legitimate media you whine so pathetically about but even you know you'd die without.

3. You clumsily try -- and fail before you even start so nobody gets hurt -- to grab one last pussy on your way down so your trifecta of political, social and sexual humiliation is complete.
4. You somehow achieve a level of self-aware sentience that lets you finally realize that the entire world is laughing at you.
5. Once you fully comprehend the consequences of your catastrophic failings as a human being, you finally get the councelling you so desperately need. And that your insurance covers it.

Victor/Victoria's IN DA HOUSE!


Sigh.

I miss the days when the media knew how to turn a president into a legitimate national embarrassment and a scandal knew how to be a SCANDAL.

Roger Ailes, 1940 - 2017


Plus you whine a lot

Wednesday, May 17, 2017

Expressing ourselves

Apparently there was some kind of tornado-y thing outside tonight. I was up a steep and very narrow stairway tapping so I missed it. But everyone at rehearsal tonight did tap up a -- and I apologize in advance for this -- storm.

Happy Syttende Mai!

[break it down: sytten = seventeen, de = of, Mai = May]
As I'm sure the endless media coverage has made you thoroughly aware, today is Norwegian Constitution Day -- celebrating the 1814 Constituent Assembly at Eidsvold where we signed our new Constitution and began our quest for independence after 400 years under the oppressive reign of the (not so great, it would seem) Danes. (We joined into an unholy union on this day with Sweden and didn't gain our full independence until 1905, but that's a whole different fjord to climb.)

So anyway, I thank all of you for wearing red and blue today to help me honor my heritage. There's leftover Christmas lutefisk in the freezer. Help yourself!

Monday, May 15, 2017

Well hello, Jackie Schneiter of Farm Bureau!

"I ran across your resume on Monster and your experience fits nicely with what we are looking for at Farm Bureau. I’d like the opportunity to discuss your resume with you further."

Why is my inbox suddenly overflowing with vaguely written, nonchalantly lying emails equating my 30 years' writing experience with a burning desire to sell insurance? And no, Jackie Schneiter of Farm Bureau, you didn't "run across my resume on Monster." I haven't updated my Monster profile since I lived in Chicago so I'm more than certain that Monster's algorithms have suppressed it as inactive and your desperate little search bots had to dig long and hard to find it. If you want me to not make fun of you by your made-up email name and your actual company name on Facebook and on my blog, your first six words to me are not allowed to me to be lies.

But it's lovely that you look forward to hearing from me. Just wait by your computer. I'll get back to you promptly. (Also six words!)

Remember Project Runway? (Is it even still on?)

Remember bad-boy Jeffrey, he of the neck tattoos and tortured-intellectual black wardrobe? I was his doppelgänger (I used that word just so I could use an umlaut) (I added that parenthetical just so I could say umlaut) (I just said parenthetical) at a long-ago Project Runway party on my annual sojourn (guess who just said sojourn?) to some friends' beach house in Rehoboth, DE. 
Remember my 32-inch waist? I don't even remember those vinyl pants. I do remember trying to scrub that temporary tattoo off my neck, though. And I'm pretty sure scrubbing off a real tattoo would be easier. And more pleasant.

Sunday, May 14, 2017

Six marriages. Under God.

Learn how to send a whore to the Vatican here

Thrice (so far!)-married serial-adulterer Donald Trump, who just yesterday bellowed "In America we don’t worship government, we worship God!" to thunderous, effusive cheering at his commencement address at Jerry Falwell Jr.'s "faith-based" Liberty University and who today played golf instead of spending Mother's Day with any of the three mothers of his five known children, is appointing the one-time mistress and now third (so far!) wife of fellow serial-adulterer Newt Gingrich as the United States ambassador to the "faith-based" Vatican.

There are more faith-based family values on the bottom of my shoe than in the entirety of that last sentence.

#Same


Thank you to all who sacrifice so much so that we can be free to marry draft dodgers and tax evaders!

The great mothers indeed

Our puerile, inarticulate man-boy president is so beneath contempt that he thinks this meaningless garbage tweet brings value to the country, to "the great mothers out there," to the sentiment of the holiday and/or to his third marriage. 

Judging by the comments on his tweet, his base is so beneath contempt that it agrees with him.

Saturday, May 13, 2017

I love it when Bridget hangs her paws off the porch steps

I also love it when I come over to visit and she runs joyously up to me and rolls immediately on her back because TUMMY RUB! I also love it when even if you whisper the word frisbee in a locked room three counties away, she hears you and runs off to find her frisbee from goodness knows where it's been hiding and races back to drop it at your feet and looks expectantly up at you because FRISBEE!

Friday, May 12, 2017

Take note

I'm a five-plus-years-out-of-practice piano player who just two years ago literally paid a guy to take my beloved but long-neglected piano off my hands so I wouldn't have to move it home from Chicago and store it indefinitely here ... and now I'm playing the rehearsal pianist Mr. Braithwaite in Theatre Cedar Rapids' upcoming Billy Elliott. And I told the directors no problem! I can learn the score and play live on stage so I don't have to unbelievably fake it while the orchestra pianist actually plays it for me! But please don't let anything be in sharps! Because sharps are the black jelly beans in the candy bowl of music! And everyone knows it! Even dead people who are decomposing! HA! Get it? Music! Decomposing!

Whew. Never mind.

Anyway! We had our first dance rehearsal tonight for one of the numbers I intend to play in the show and even though I don't have the piano score yet, the vocal score shows it's in C! No sharps! Not even flats! Just pure, well-composed (ahem) C. Plus it literally has "boogie" in the title so it's pretty much guaranteed to be basic three-chord progressions. Which is just one chord more than you need to play "Chopsticks." So I think I'm up for the challenge.

Unfortunately, my last five years of obsessive but admirably diligent thumb-texting do not equal anything resembling a sustained level of piano-playing dexterity. So I'll be supplementing my daily texting training with some rigorous scales and arpeggios for the next few months.

And while I don't think I've played piano on stage in front of anyone in maybe 20 years, I will be now! And I'm treble-y excited about it. Well, I bass-ically am. No, I am. I flat-out am.

I only roll eyes for you



Yes, Kellyanne. He was rolling his eyes because of your boobs. It had nothing to do with your unyielding full-steam-ahead railroading of your laughably partisan narratives at the expense of all logic or empirical truth. It had nothing to do with your stubborn defense of our indefensible man-boy president. It had nothing to do with your chronic professional victimhood. (Remember that one time you conflated an eye roll over your moronity into a heartless act of sexism? That was classic!) It might have had a little to do with the Woody Woodpecker band uniform you chose to wear to the inauguration, though. 

My biggest complaint is that you were at some point banned from CNN for all your desperate, belligerent lying and yet there you were again this week, like a recurrent herpes outbreak after a nice long dormancy. Your biggest complaint should be that you blew your big comeback and made a fool out of yourself again right out of the gate and then for good measure you went and whined on Faux News and made it all about YOOOUUU. I'd laugh and say never stop being you, but the fact is I can't stand you. The country was catastrophically imploding on itself just fine without all your pointless screeching and whining (now THAT was sexist!) but you had to ruin it all and get reanimated from the dead or crawl out of your goblin hole (now I'm just making fun of your looks! which is also sexist! but it's still just gonna be all about Anderson's eye-roll for you! because that gets you more cheap attention!) and it's been a couple days since the eye rolled 'round the world and you're STILL clogging my Facebook feed with all your pointlessness. 

For the love of all things good and true, you really need to take a longer break before your next attempted comeback. Go somewhere nice. Treat yourself to some rest and rejuvenation. I hear Bowling Green is lovely this time of year.

Tut-tut



And so we finish all our projects and wrap up another workweek and leave the office for our weekend activities and ... crap.

Because I'm only sort of down with the kids, yo


ChicagoRound: Uptown Broadway Building

I used to live in the Uptown neighborhood of Chicago, which had a visually delicious building boom in the early 20th century during a period an architect friend of mine once described as being stylistically dominated by "architectural porn." And since I am shamelessly and reverently fluent in architectural showoff terms like bas relief and Moorish pilasters and Juliet balustrades and Gothic spandrels, the neighborhood was a wonderland of happiness for me. 

I discovered early on that I lived relatively close to the Uptown Broadway Building, which was a glorious visual feast of styles and eras and shapes and textures and optical chaos and exquisite balance in one captivating explosion of glazed terra-cotta love that spoke directly to me every time I passed by it or crossed the street to get a better view of it or walked an extra five blocks to a different EL stop just so I could visit it ... and more than once made a special trip just to take pictures of it in different sunlight or dramatic nighttime uplighting. It's one of the many neighborhood gems that regularly brightened my everyday Chicago goings-about, and I'm feeling nostalgic about my old haunts today so I dug through all my old photos and found this and now I just want to go back even more.

Oh, Sweetie. Bless your heart.

1. The way you typed this with your chocolate-cake-covered thumbs, you have your surrogates somehow collectively being a very active president. So yes, you totally have an accuracy problem. Just not where you in your delusional narcissism think it is.

2. It's your surrogates' job to provide accurate information about your administration to the press. Not to hide in bushes. Not to yell at black people. If they don't provide accurate information, they can always use the time-honored "let me get back to you" duck and run, which at least gives everyone the impression that they're taking the time to ask questions and do research to be accurately informed while they're most likely stalling for time to find a way to spin your increasingly delusional and bizarre words and actions into a way to blame big black Barack Obama for your catastrophic failings.

3. Speaking of your catastrophic failings, if your surrogates don't have perfect accuracy, either they're incompetent or you are. Which, again, is Barack Obama's fault. Or Hillary's. Or now Comey's! Your hallucinatory little world is filled with wondrous possibilities.

4. "Lots of things happening" is a conveniently passive way of implying your schedule is just packed with important presidenty things, which in the real world do not involve golfing every weekend at tremendous taxpayer expense, locking up your third failing marriage in a gilded New York tower also at tremendous taxpayer expense, being an appallingly absent parent to all your children except the ones who actively sustain your practices of corruption and self-aggrandizement, and desperately changing your lies about why you fired the Republican-appointed, served-under-four-consecutive-presidents, in-the-middle-of-investigating-you-for-corruption FBI director on the national news and THEN by letter while you knew he was out of town instead of being a big brave professional "businessman" president and doing it in person.

5. "Cancel all press briefings"? Isn't that what a despotic dictator would do? I'll give you a moment to ask your presidential surrogates if anyone knows the word despot.

6. Getting back to point #1, your inability to write an accurate tweet makes your proposal to "hand out written responses" is the exact opposite of "the best thing to do."

7. And while we're on the topic of your tweets, they're getting longer and more punctuationy and more desperately-blame-everyone-else-but-yourselfy by the day. You're not fooling anyone but your arrogance; you are unhinged, flying off the rails, and hopefully literally and very soon slamming your smug face into the side of a mountain in a catastrophic crash of your own psychopathy.

8. I loathe you.

9. I loathe everyone who voted for and still defiantly supports you.

10. I loathe you.

It's a sunshine day

Mega-pumpy arm workout at the gym. Extended "Life in a Northern Town" dance remix on the sound system. Extended I-don't-care-who's-looking happy dance between sets. Super-cool new sneaks to wear all day. Also a Mickey Mouse T-Shirt. M-I-C! K-E-Y! M-O-U-S-ESHIRT!

Today's gonna have to work awfully hard not to be awesome.

Flashback Friday: Flaming Friars Edition

I played a firefighter and a cheesy dancing monk, as one does, in an original musical about blossoming gay romance in a monastery, which just took me four attempts to spell with zero help from autocorrect, in my last show with always-delightfully-inventive Chicago Gay Men's Chorus eight years ago. I can't find an archive of shows on the CGMC site to confirm the name, but I believe it was called Bad Habits. Or maybe Betcha Can't Spell Monastery on the First Try. If I remember correctly, my firefighter character showed up at the end of the show for a false alarm, but otherwise a good name might have been Putting Out the Friars. Or, given the budding-gay-romance theme, it could have been shortened to just Outing the Friars. The show included a brilliant repurposing of the impossible-to-memorize-because-it-used-every-rhyming-word-in-Latin "Amor volat undique" from Carl Orff's epic cantata Carmina Burana, so we could have called our show Carmina Burnana. Or Carmina Banana since we'd already broken the calling-ourselves-fruits barrier with an earlier production titled Low-Hanging Fruit. In any case, the moral of this story is I wish CGMC had a more thorough archive of show titles on its site -- or at least the mobile version of its site -- so I wouldn't have to embarrass myself like this struggling to remember the name of a show I did eight -- which autocorrect just changed to "right" so WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM, AUTOCORRECT? YOU WANNA TAKE THIS OUTSIDE? BECAUSE I GUARANTEE YOU DON'T WANNA TAKE THIS OUTSIDE -- years ago about monks and firefighters in a place I still need to learn how to spell. Ooo! What about Love Amonk Friends? Or Monktown Abbey? Or Going Robe? Or Monk Rock? Or Monk'd? Or Friar Knowledge? Or if my part had been bigger and I'd maybe have had the romance with one of the gay monks -- both of whom I remember as being totally cute -- we could have called it Friarfighter. But that sounds more like the exact opposite of romance -- kinda like MME [for Monk Madness Entertainment] Smackdown! -- so maybe not. Wait! Monkey Business! That would have been totally awesome! So would Hey, Hey, we're the Monkees, but I think that had already been taken by some other monastery (there's that word again, still with no help from autocorrect, but this time it took me only two tries so my retention skills are improving) act. No! Wait! I've got it! Monky Town! MONK. Y. TOWN. Ha! They really don't pay me enough for my brilliance on Facebook. I need to open a GoMonkMe page on here to make my remuneration commonksurate with my talents. Because, as you just KNEW this was coming so you have no one to blame but yourselves for reading this last sentence, Monky Makes the World Go 'Round.

Thursday, May 11, 2017

"Laughing up their sleeves"? Genius!

Are you gonna make that happen like that time you invented "priming the pump" and "Pocahontas" too? Because those totally caught on. You are are truly a scholar, a scientist, a historian and an esteemed inventor of using the words. You're like a worder or something. And ain't nobody laughing up their sleeves (if I may quote the words of a clever man) at YOU. No sir!

He hid. In the bushes. Sean Spicer. An adult. HID IN THE BUSHES.

I thought this was an Onion headline the first time I scrolled past it on here. But Sean Spicer, the United States White House Press Secretary, ACTUALLY HID IN THE WHITE HOUSE BUSHES TO AVOID DOING HIS JOB OF ANSWERING QUESTIONS FROM THE PRESS ABOUT THE ABRUPT FIRING OF THE FBI DIRECTOR BY THE PRESIDENT HE WAS INVESTIGATING.

Sean Spicer hid in the bushes. Like a four-year-old. Or a cartoon chicken. To avoid doing his job for the president who hired him. The president who didn't fire him for his childish, nationally embarrassing dereliction of duties.

Are you appalled yet, Trump voters? Because I am. By all of you.

And I invented Post-Its!

"You understand the expression 'prime the pump'? ... I just … I came up with it a couple of days ago and I thought it was good. It's what you have to do."
-- Our narcissistically delusional man-boy president explaining to The Economist -- which he clearly knows nothing about -- how he "came up with" an economic concept -- which he clearly knows nothing about -- that has been used by our government -- which he clearly knows nothing about -- since 14 years before he was born

Today in Stupid

Stupid #1: I forgot to pack a towel for the gym this morning.

Stupid #2: I tried to dry off after my shower using the emergency backup T-shirt I keep in my gym bag.

Stupid #3: After catastrophically failing at that and after I somehow managed to pull my clothes onto my still-wet body, I discovered I'd long ago also packed an emergency backup towel in my gym bag.

Tuesday, May 09, 2017

I'm not even going to fact-check this to confirm it's real before I post it

I'm not even going to give Fox and its willfully ignorant, easily manipulatable viewers the benefit of the doubt on the remote chance they might have information or interpretations or opinions that are true or even valid.

I'm barely even wrapping my head around the events of today and the propaganda machinery like Fox that is inextricably complicit in setting the stage for it all to happen. I keep telling myself that he and they have finally crossed the line where I feel so furious and so frustrated and so helpless that the gloves are off and the civility is over and the wrath is out in full force. And suddenly that line is 100 miles behind us. Again. And again. And again.

How can anyone in any way be FOR this?

OHMYGODPLEASEPLEASEPLEASELETTHISBEREAL


Treasoning like a dog

My usual loathing and contempt for him aside, I kinda feel sorry for Sean Spicer this week. And it's only Tuesday.

All is forgiven though if he has a full-sequin drama-queen meltdown within the next 24 hours. And I mean FULL: smeared mascara, more-debilitating-than-usual incoherency, rended garments and visible evidence of vital organs hemorrhaging out of at least one above-the-neck orifice. Or no deal.

I think he adores cosmos too

So tonight we're staging a scene in Victor/Victoria where I play a choreographer for a French drag show. Which is so outside my skill set and comfort zone that I can't even decide which macramé leotard to wear. To make matters worse, my character doesn't even have a name or a wig plot so I don't have any of the actorly tools I need to build a plausible backstory or any semblance of an emotional development arc. Heck, there isn't even any evidence in the script that he's gay. Which would just be preposterous anyway. But we've been encouraged to explore our characters and take brave actorly risks. So I've decided -- as a tentative, not-yet-committing-to-be-gay blueprint -- that my character's name is Fulgencio and he has a sibilant s and he stands in a bevel. And he likes show tunes. Just not the gay ones.

[my edits in brackets]

"It is essential that we find new leadership [meaning lackeys who know their place] for the FBI that restores [because I've tirelessly and incrementally destroyed it since the early days of the election] public trust [if people don't trust me it's your fault! and Sally's! and Flynn's! and Hillary's! and Obama's! but never mine!] and confidence [the more people I fire who are investigating me, the more confident people are in me, right?] in its vital [did I say vital? I meant inconvenient] law [I AM THE LAW NOW!] enforcement [I "enforce" the law by firing people who will expose me] mission."

I dove this


Things the president has said or done that are praiseworthy

As requested by The New York Times:
• He knows more about ISIS than the generals do.
• He could stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and wouldn't lose any voters.
• He's so good at leadership and deal-making that he almost brought his entire majority party together to pass a piece of legislation that didn't involve an executive order.
• He could have prevented the Civil War if Andrew Jackson would have just trusted those deal-making skills.
• He bombed Syria. Or Iraq. Whatever.
• He traveled through time to the year 3010, fought the evil robot kings and saved the human race again.
• He's fathered the eminent scientist and knockoff shoe designer Ivanka Trump, who as we speak is packing her vast, unbiased scientific knowledge into a genuine alligator clutch with a logo-jacquard lining and a pearl-inlay pinch clasp trimmed in signature rose gold to meet with EPA Administrator Scott Pruitt to review the United States’ commitment to the Paris Climate Change agreement.
• Speaking of the eminent scientist and knockoff shoe designer Ivanka Trump, he's so open-minded that he let a Jew into his family. Still no word on his approval of the blacks, though.
• Speaking of eminent, he's an eminent (as all Trumps are) scholar of religion who's learned enough to pronounce it "Two Corinthians."
• He ushered in an exciting new hairstyle that put an end to the man-bun.
• He saved himself money by having all his pro-American-jobs campaign hats made in China.
• He saved the whole country money by golfing in New Jersey instead of New York last weekend.
• He somehow made Kellyanne Conway go away.
• Speaking of disappearing women, has anyone seen our First Lady? Has anyone seen ANY praiseworthy evidence of Trump's third marriage?
• Speaking of Trump's marriages, he generously pays his used wives so much money that they never need to talk to anyone about their relationships with and insights into him, the president of the entire United States.
• He can probably name all of his wives and children. In order.
• He opened a state-of-the-art Holocaust center.
• He gave an entire generation of parents the opportunity to explain to their young children what a pussy is.