Trump is not the problem here

trumpWatching this White House operate has truly been amazing.  Every day some new bull shit surfaces.  Some new reason to be worried, some new statement that makes me scratch my balls, smell my hand and say HMMMMM.

But honestly, Trump is not to blame for this.  We are to blame.  Duh’Merica is the problem here.  It doesn’t matter who sits in the big chair, the people of Duh’Merica, myself included, are the idiots here.

After all, Trump was elected fairly.  So that means more people selected him over any other candidates.  Well done Duh’Merica, well done.

People are so easily manipulated by social media that they can never seem to actually see what is real.  Truth has just become whatever narrative each person chooses to accept.

Like Charles P. Pierce said, “Anything is true if it is said loud enough.”

Well guess what?  Trump was louder than Hillary in every single, fucking way.  And all you Duh’Mericans ate that shit up.

He just keep repeating the same boring Republican mantra over and over and over and over.  And you all bought in with wreck-less fucking abandon.

When he proclaimed he would “lock her up,” all of privileged White-America collectively jizzed their pants.  And now we are left with a 4 year stain that is going to be far worse than what Bill Clinton shot all over Monica’s dress.

We deserve this Duh’Merica, we ABSOLUTELY FUCKING DESERVE THIS.

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Dancing Al Roker (the lost milf)

Pain-pill-addiction-Top-10-signs-and-symptoms2her main job for the day is to take the kids to and from school.  They are older now so the task has become considerably easier. Their Iphones have the alarm clocks now and they no longer care for breakfast.

“The bus leaves in 10 minutes,” she warns them each morning.

her bus is an extended Chevy Suburban with those cute stickers on the back window that helps everyone understand exactly how many kids and pets she has now.  The windows are tinted as dark black as legally possible so no one can see her face absent of make up that earlier in the morning.  The crows feet are deeper now and the dark circles widen with each year.

after dropping them off, kisses blown and back to the house.  Once inside, time for the magical breakfast 5-4-3 cocktail……..5 grapes followed by 4 crushed and snorted Oxy’s followed by a glass of water with 3 lemon slices………….ah, let the numb morning begin.

so much easier to watch the Today show with that “sink into the couch” feeling, damn, Al Roker looks like a little, black, talking prune……..pointing at colorful maps of clouds, rain, snow and bright, smiling suns……….easy, the maps move so fast, so colorful, so fast.

she thinks Al’s dancing again just like he does every morning, “Now here’s what’s happening in your neck of the woods.”  She tries to imagine what her neck and the woods have in common.  “That phrase is so strange,” she thinks as she continually scratches that same place under her chin that she paws at each morning as Al continues to dance.  Thankfully, plenty of turtlenecks in the drawer by the bed.

the couch feels so good, so good that it’s already lunchtime.  Al danced off the screen hours ago, but she doesn’t remember and she doesn’t care.

finding the energy, she pulls her body into the kitchen knowing that she should probably eat something, she opens the fridge and stares, returns to the couch, sinking like an anchor all the way to the bottom

an odd sound grips her ears, slow pulsing guitar chords bend back and forth, back and forth, she realizes it’s her cell phone again and not Al’s dancing music…………

a message, she amazingly finds the voice mail button……

“Hello Mrs. So and So, we were wondering why you didn’t show up at your son’s teacher conference this morning. He said you promised to make it this time. We hope everything is alright,” says the message voice.

No worries, everything is wonderful.  Time for the 5-4-3 lunch.

Rinse and repeat

Scenes from a Waiting Room

Act I. (the elderly)
Old, musty ass wrinkled seniors wearing bad track suits, their lifeless, aged skin scarred with purple gum colored splotches hanging from their bones like loose sleeves,
a cell phone rings deep inside a purse underneath the dentures and coupons, by the time the old lady realized it was ringing, silence

Act II. (the soccer mom)
Frost dyed hair, way too tight Hollister shirt, tight faded jeans with pocket designs, elastic fake tits shaped into perfect round globes, husband at work banging his secretary who has even faker tits, but younger body
wife doesn’t care as long as she gets Starbucks 3 times daily,the phat mommy suburban with the cutesy family stickers on the back window showing how many people are in the family, the glowing quarter sized diamond earrings and the trips to Vail, easy to have no soul than to deal with reality

Act III. (the salesmen)
Bad cuff links that even gay dudes wouldn’t wear, fake ass smile accompanied by even faker greetings, slick gelled guido-like hair stuck to their scalps with paste, belts crushed by doughnut stomachs,
calling names like cattle and branding the innocents with fees

Act IV. (me)
Three freaking hours waiting for tires, brought a Bukowski book, could only imagine what he would have thought
I couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t finish reading, couldn’t play games on my cell phone, I just kept watching the train wreck evolve with every new person who came into the waiting room, no blood or body parts, crap.

Red, White and Boo (a poem)

I see your Katie Perry

And I raise you Beyonce.

What ever happened to real art, like the Fat Boys?

Now, just splendid drivel cascading from the youthful mouth

Texting, sexting, pursed lips and Jersey Shore dreams.

Find China on a map? Fuck You, I’m getting my nails done at 3.

Be careful young ones, the noodles and puppy nuggets are coming to a store near you.

I see your E Hollywood News

And raise you Dancing With the Stars.

Posting every mundane bit of your daily shit for all to see

Facebook, Twitter, MySpace your freaking life away

My eyes, dried and burnt from your “Do you like me?” poll.

Keep your pom poms clean and your cell phone charged.

I see your De-evolution

And go all in with your soul

Shouldn’t be difficult to call my bet

You are another failed demographic, another vapid target market.

Duh’Merica (a poem)

DUH’merica, what have you done?

While you parade the streets in gas guzzling suburbans, there are soldiers dying around the world trying to kill dark-skinned people after taking orders from fat, pasty-white politicians who only care about their offshore bank accounts.

DUH’merica, why don’t you care?

That our children have difficulty finding China on a map, but they can update their Facebook status perfectly while crossing a busy city street without getting splattered in traffic.

DUH’merica, why can’t you turn it off?

The Kardashians, TMZ, The Bachelor, American Idol, America’s Got Talent sift through the minds of our youth like a slow, neurotoxin eating them from the inside out. Continue reading

Plastic Parade (a poem)

duck-face-mom-yearA-typical Rolex submariner sits on the dad’s wrist like a beacon of arrival,
his too-tight Ed Hardy tee sticks to his cross fit chest like an extra layer of skin.
those hours in the gym, the broccoli, the grilled chicken, the spinach salads……
Eyes scanning the crowd looking for that 25 year-old who hasn’t yet sunk the botox into her forehead

Wifey to his left, flipping her platinum dyed hair again and again and again
She, looking for someone to make fun of, looking for someone to help her feel better about her collagen duck-faced lips,

her third tit job, her fourth anal bleaching, her fifth affair with a new trainer,Tattoo reads “MILF” along the panty line that only a select 50 or so willing erections get to see.

She, peering at the younger women while licking her lips with the misguided confidence of an American Idol contestant

Continue reading

Did Tony Fuck Angela?

(A while ago I had a gmail blogger account and posted this.  One of my favorite poets,Misti Rainwater-Lites posted a nice comment about it.  Sure it could have been a Misti imposter, but I like to tell myself it was really her.)

I keep asking myself the question………… Did Tony ever fuck Angela? I want to know, I want to know badly. If he did, I think it would have gone  something like this:

Tony approached her right after he finished vacuuming the drapes. She had probably just returned home from a hard day of work at her advertising agency. She was standing by the door teasing her Grayish-streaked hair, almost inviting him to taste her middle-aged grapes.

“Hey Angela, you are looking pretty hot standing there by the door. Why don’t you come a little closer so I can fuck you up the ass,” Tony would quip.

“Oh Tony, you are so boorish, so Italian, so ruggedly…………….. what time is dinner,” Angela would blush and retreat to the kitchen.

Then Mona would enter the room, arm entwined with a an old drunk who resembled Bukowski. Tony and Angela could both smell the sex on her breath as she paraded around the room with the misguided confidence only shared by Blanche from the Golden Girls. Continue reading