Sunday, May 28, 2017


Why is it that there are only two people in this gym and we're both using the same equipment to work the same body part? I want to use MY equipment in MY order or I'm going to whine and post gym selfies on my blog.

Oh, wait. I was gonna do that anyway.

Zut alors!

If he's importing cars from France, then his rallying cry of American JOBS! JOBS! JOBS! must be a bunch of merde.

Is our president this transparently desperate and petulantly dumb

or is our president this transparently desperate and petulantly dumb?

The Iowa speech we're all going to miss:

"I don't understand farm subsidies but I'm going to pretend I do blah blah blah my inauguration crowds were bigger than the entire population of the United States blah blah blah no president in the history of the galaxy has been treated worse than I have blah blah blah beautiful babies and chocolate cake blah blah blah I just got back from Europe where I counted all the way to G7 blah blah blah next question, as long as it's about MEEEEEEEEE. Oh, and blah blah blah."

If. Only.

Just this month, Franklin Graham in a fiery keynote speech at the World Summit in Defense of Persecuted Christians -- yes, apparently that's a thing now -- declared without citing figures or sources beyond his own made-upness that "I am sure the number of Christians who are in prison or martyred each year would stagger our mind if we really knew what the total number really was."

Oh, the heartbreak of "if only." And I'm sure the collective singular "our mind" was just a typo in the transcript. Because surely these hapless persecution victims have more than one mind between them.


Oh, Scott. Scott, Scott, Scott. Bless your heart. I'll try to keep this short so you can get back to showing off your import:

1. The fact that you feel obligated to state that you're not afraid is tacit acknowledgement that we're well past the tipping point where most of your swamp friends are afraid to admit they support Melania's Profound Regret and all thinking people are afraid for reasons that are apparently beyond your understanding.

2. Speaking of understanding, "tacit" means "understood or implied without being stated."

3. Really. One little sticker is more than enough to proclaim to the world your catastrophic lack of judgment. But five little stickers AND an entire bottle of rub-on shoe polish? That just exponentiates your bad judgment about your bad judgment.

4. "Exponentiates" means "raises one quantity to the power of another."

5. Don't worry. Betsy DeVos took that last one off the test. Math is apparently too Satany.

6. Your car photo doesn't show your license plate so I can't discern what state you live in -- gratuitous "of denial" and "of delusion" jokes notwithstanding -- but a perfunctory google search just showed me that obstructing your rear window outside of a varying allowance of a few square inches in each corner is considered dangerous and illegal in all of the state traffic codes I read.


8. "Perfunctory" means "carried out with a minimum of effort."

9. I apologize. I know I promised to keep this short. But there are so many things profoundly wrong with you.

10. Mazda is a Japanese multinational automaker based in Fuchū, Aki District, Hiroshima Prefecture, Japan. Four of the five little stickers on your Japan-is-not-America Mazda clearly -- CLEARLY! -- state "MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN!" In all caps! With exclamation points! One has to wonder the level of cognitive dissonance required to put multiple pro-America stickers on an imported car and declare a "love" of "showing off" that car in presumably pro-American "support" of a by clear implication pro-American "president."

11. "Cognitive dissonance" means ... oh, never mind. Betsy won't allow it on the test either. Enjoy your metaphorical obstructed-view drive. 

12. "Metaphor" means ... oy ... let's just say it's one fewer than metaphive so you won't have to count so high.

Friday, May 26, 2017

Signs of the apocalypse

1. Bitch Kitty does something cute, like pose with her paws out like she's a superhero.

2. Bitch Kitty lets me get close enough to take her picture without hissing and running away.

3. Bitch Kitty even cooperatively looks up at the camera and gives a wan smile for her picture.

4. Melania makes a public appearance in a $51,500 Dolce & Gabbana jacket while her husband can't find money in the national budget for Meals on Wheels.

5. Pickles.


The physical headache that kept me in bed all day is mostly better. The man-boy headache proudly endures, though. I'm gonna bet he didn't know what NATO stands for or who's in the G7 -- or more importantly, why they are -- until last Monday.

Thursday, May 25, 2017

Fun facts about my nephew

1. I've changed his diaper exactly once because for some reason when he was a baby and he needed changing, my mom was all "He POOPED! That's so ADORABLE! Let me change his diaper for him!" and she hogged all the fun.
2. He had a belly laugh that would put a mall full of Santas to shame, and it didn't take much to fire up his hearty laugh machine: tossing him in the air, making a funny face, poking him in the tummy and -- for some reason once he was old enough to talk -- just saying the word "envelope."
3. His head was so round and so bald for so long that I'm pretty sure when he was about five my sister traded him in for a kid with cheekbones and a tube of Rogaine because I totally don't recognize my nephew of today in the pictures of my nephew as a baby.
4. Once he could walk, I bought him some rain boots with feet decorated to look like duck bills and ankles decorated with duck eyes that he wore every chance he got until well after he outgrew them and his toes stuck out of the cracked rubber and the smell coming from them sometimes made him difficult to hug but for some reason I was proud to the point of tears that he loved them because *I* bought them for him.
5. He more than once wore those duck boots with a hard hat and a pair of safety goggles and went into a DEEPLY focused zone as he pretended to edge the lawn with his toy weed whacker. We adults kinda saw this as alarming but mostly saw it as a profoundly funny way to keep him quiet for remarkable lengths of time.
6. He loved fire trucks. FIRE TRUCKS! I bought him a fireman suit with his name on the chest one year for Christmas and I thought we'd have to throw buckets of water on him to calm him down after he opened it.
7. I'm a gay man and I have no innate knowledge about how to raise children -- not that those two are mutually exclusive -- but I had no idea how to incorporate the gay part of my life into his understanding of who I am as he grew up in a world of naturally heterocentrist assumptions. And whether he figured it out gradually or all at once, one of the greatest gifts he ever gave me was totally not caring one way or the other. And one of the second greatest gifts he ever gave me was his enthusiasm about making totally tasteless gay jokes with me as he got older.
8. I'd kinda hoped that as he grew up he'd see me as the cool best-friend/trusted-confidant uncle in whom he could confide the vicissitudes of his teenage angst or from whom he could get private, non-judgmental answers to his questions about girls (or boys, but it ended up being girls), but all I really ended up getting was the friend part. Which I'm totally cool with.
9. Every kid's age is the best age, but I'm firmly in the camp that right now is the BEST best age because it comes with thoughtful conversations and informed opinions about current events and inside jokes that are a few steps above using the word "underpants" and -- and this is my favorite part for some reason -- the exchange of texts filled with inappropriate humor and exponentially inappropriate memes that show I have successfully completed my avuncular mission to thoroughly corrupt the boy.
10. After a whirlwind few months of senior awards ceremonies and final choir concerts and poorly-attended-by-me baseball games -- which cap off a whirlwind 18 years of time-has-flown-by-way-too-fast-for-me-to-savor-each-moment -- my nephew graduates from high school tonight. And I know it's just a milestone in a family of lives filled with milestones, but this milestone carries the weight of signifying the end of his childhood, of his belly laughs, of his duck boots, of his fire trucks, of his joy over eating Mickey Mouse waffles when he visited me in Chicago, of his need for me to pick him up from school, of his influence on me to make sure I live my life in a way that he grows up with a good example to emulate and a proud memory to eventually look back on. We're certainly not done raising him -- and I still have a niece I need to finish corrupting before she graduates -- but right now I'm overflowing with joy and sadness and worry and calm and immeasurable pride that I got to play a part in raising such a kind, intelligent, clever, responsible, conscientious, loving, eminently outstanding young man.

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


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!


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.


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.


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.