Unlucky and woeful me. I never got the memo. That was four years ago when Joe Biden, the absolute moron sandwich-eating worst leader since Vlad the Impaler, was unanimously elected by the peasants with nearly 4.6 guzzabillion votes.
I’ve spent the past week-plus since the re-election of El Dono Malo, well. Gloating and giggling and doing The Frugue. There’s endless footage of Democrat women shaving their heads, liberal men promising not to buy another pair of plum-colored Espadrilles for at least six days and the general cliché Democrat gnashing of teeth and wailing.
Or is it whaling. Let the copy desk figure it out.
I smile, glancing over social media posts from liberal friends, old hippie school chums, heartthrobs from the days of Jan & Dean. A curious quilt of many liberal patterns unfolds. Denial. Anger. Blame. Hopelessness. Wretchedness. Depression. Threats to wear ninja black the next 48 months. You know. L.U.S.T. Syndrome?
Late Unrepressed Stage Teenagedom?
Box cars filled with movie stars have been sobbing since the election, threatening to leave the state (ours, the one with the nice weather) and move to a clime rich with pronounless cannibals. Well. OK. Go. Scoot. Left foot. Right foot. Fill yourself with a terrible resolve, and, before you know it, you’re basking in a land rich with palm fronds and short on personal assistants.
I ask the highest form of intelligence on the planet — the movie stars — “Why are you STILL here?” Bette. Barbra. Rob Reiner. Robert “No Tengo” DeNiro. Whoopi. That disfigured red-haired comedienne from the “D” list. They make grand promises to swallow poison, set themselves on fire or, worse, watch their own movies. But, drat. C’mon. It’s been a week. How long does it take to stuff a miniature lapdog into a suitcase or jump off a pier?
It never occurred to me when a Clinton, Obama or Beach Bunny Joe were elected that I had the right to my own, self-involved never-ending ceremony of mourning. I could have spent the entire Biden Administration sluggoing a 9,200-ounce bottle of Jim Beam, sobbing, spinning madly in a circle while listening to The Rolling Stones’ romantic ballad, “Paint it Black.”
While. I. Film. Myself.
Jimmy Kimmel cried during his monologue last week. I can commiserate. I have a great newspaper editor friend who says he cries every time he reads my column. Not the same, though.
I should have invented some tribal Michael Jackson moonwalk when Joe was elected. I should have stripped naked and Crazy Glued the Yellow Pages to my body, metaphor being that I’m so distraught at Joe hoarsely barking at me, my skin turned yellow.
Like Jaundice.
Not to be confused with the Democrats’ next one-name rapper/Supreme Court nominee.
Oh. Wait. Sorry again. You guys aren’t going to get to nominate anyone to the Big Bench for quite some time — are you?
Well Bribe My Oprah. How come I didn’t get to sniffle and pout during Kamala’s four-year paid vacation? Years ago, I actually owned a flag of the fictitious country of Freedonia, from the Marx Brothers movie, “Duck Soup.” Can’t, for the life of me, remember what it looked like. But, it would have been nice to sit down at the end of the dirt road with it wrapped around me while I boo-hoo-hooed, in protest, waiting for the Sparkletts truck to break down in our driveway.
I could have jumped onto the running board and yelled at the driver: “Your purified water is KILLING our planet!” I’d scream. “And the polar bears! And the five elephants under Mother Earth that hold up our planet on their backs!!” Which reminds me of a college science class I took. Wasn’t it a GIANT who holds the Earth on his shoulder? Or, maybe a big-asterisks turtle? In either case — giant, turtle — what are THEY standing on?
Those damn Democrats. I never got to chant when they won. “WOMEN’S BODIES!! HEY HO!! WOMEN’S CHOICE!! HAY-DEE-HAY-DEE-HI-DEE-HO!!” followed by screaming, “TIPPECANOE AND TYLER TOO!”
Cripes. Pre-Civil War President John Tyler. The Whigs. What another bunch of maroons, as my hero, Bugs Bunny, used to say. You know what was wrong with the Whigs? They Whigsplained.
I wish I could have bumped into then-teen activist Greta Thoooooooooonberg and yelled in her face: “You have stolen my dreams and my childhood! COUGH ’EM UP, YOU SWEDISH MEATBALL!!!”
Sometimes, in the privacy of my own latrine, I’ll make faces in the mirror. Unless I’ve been drinking, I don’t post them on the Internet. My reasoning? If I ever ran for office, after such an ill-advised PR stunt, I’d be publicly shunned and shamed. But? Such behavior in a Democrat is some strange Badge of Honor & Courage for the stupid. And, it’s rewarded.
“And, if you elect me president, every day I will work to dance lewdly in front of you and bite babies on the leg, then post it on TikTok! And, with the millions I get from the hits, I’ll donate it to Oprah!!”
The hypnotized scream, faint and mosh pit vault at the Democrat Convention.
Speaking of, how ’bout that Oprah? Pocketing a million bucks to pretend she likes 3 Brain Cells Kamala? If that isn’t flirting dangerously with marriage …
My problem? Whenever there’s a Democrat in The White House, I never had that kind of money to leave the country. Well. I could’ve left and wandered the Mexican wilderness, living The Life Cro-Magnon. I could have enjoyed a simple existence, knitting loin cloths from rabbit pelts. Not dead rabbits. Live ones. Like my liberal friends, I have emotional trust issues. I can’t commit, but, I enjoy the meaningless wiggling.
I heard Kamala Harris, after an elongated period of not working and enjoying public emotional breakdowns, might come back to California to Fail Upward — maybe run for governor.
Please, Kammie. Feel free to use my Democratic Party can-do campaign slogan and promise for the future — “Like the Wiggling, LOVE the Giggling!”
John Boston is Earth history’s (and Santa Clarita’s) most prolific humorist/satirist. Visit his new website and store, johnlovesamerica.com.
