99-Seat Inauguration

Donald J. Trump, who will be sworn in today as the 45th president of the United States. Mr. Trump's inauguration is projected to be a relatively paltry-attended affair, with less than half of the onlookers for Barack Obama's record-setting first inauguration expected to show up. The president-elect has also had notorious difficulty getting top name entertainers to perform at his inaugural gala (a Bruce Springsteen tribute group called the B Street Band turned down an offer to perform, opting instead for a more dignified gig at a Compton Chuck E. Cheese) and he is anticipated to endure the biggest boycott of congressional members for an inauguration since Richard Nixon's 1973 post-Watergate swearing in. I will be snubbing the ceremony by spending the day looking at Internet porn and glumly masturbating but as a veteran performer of 99-seat theatre where the actors frequently out-number the audience, I know all the ins and outs of dealing with smallish crowds. For instance, if you look out into the audience and forget your lines because you caught a glimpse of someone who makes you uncomfortable (such as one of a multitude of ex-wives or a former contestant on your reality TV program who is suing you for sexual harassment), the best thing to do is ramble incomprehensibly until it's the next fella's turn to speak. If you receive a bad review, spend that night's performance mocking some physical attribute of the critic which has nothing to do with the substance of his write-up. And if things didn't go your way, whip out your phone and tweet bitterly about how it's all someone else's fault until you feel better. In fact now that I think of it, Mr. Trump's entire campaign mimics my behavior during an especially painful production of Under the Yum Yum Tree I did in 1998. If I'd only had the foresight to blame my bad notices on illegal immigrants and Muslim terrorists, I might have already been impeached by now.


Trump's cabinet picks, the most outrageous collections of obtuse billionaires who have no qualifications for the jobs they've been asked to take over that has ever sat before the United States Congress. It really is impossible to call out one buffoon from another in this maddening parade of knuckleheads: You have Rex Tillerson, a man who has spent his entire career working for Exxon submitted as Secretary of State despite the fact that he has zero diplomatic experience aside from sucking up to Vladimir Putin in order to get drilling rights to the Ukraine. Betsy DeVos thinks that she is the one person in the United States best qualified to be Secretary of Education because she is a billionaire who gave over $9 million to the Trump campaign yet she has stated that guns are a necessity in schools because of the threat of grizzly bears. Former brain surgeon Ben Carson is proposed as Secretary of Housing and Urban Development because as a child he lived the projects and, hey, that's as urban as you can get. Jeffrey Beauregard Sessions III wants to be Attorney General despite being an unrepentant racist who thinks atheists lack the intellectual capacity of Christians. Tom Price, wannabe Secretary of Health and Human Services, has massive financial conflicts of interest in that area. Professional idiot Rick Perry is thought to be the best man for Secretary of Energy, the guardian of America's nuclear stockpile, even though he didn't understand what the job actually was when he accepted the offer. I know it seems like enough to want to chew your own foot off, but look at the bright side. With Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus finally closing after 146 years, at least there will still be a place to watch clowns be clowns.


My number 8 enemy of 2016 Lisa Glass, who is making a concerted effort to increase her rating this year. Ms. Glass posted an article from the New York Times stating that "Republican Men Say Itís a Better Time to Be a Woman Than a Man." Ms. Glass and her bra-burning cronies pooh-poohed the sentiments but I think the article makes an excellent point. As an example, say you're an asexual space alien being given a choice to inhabit one gender or the other during an extended stay on our planet. I provide you a photo juxtaposing Ms. Glass (on the left) and your beloved correspondent (on the right) and inform you that this is that this is the face and body you're going to have to look at in the mirror every morning during your time on earth. Can you honestly imagine some slime-covered extraterrestrial from Alpha Centauri wouldn't be the chick in this scenario every time? And that doesn't even bring up the topic of genitalia. I can tell you from personal research that women have countless enthusiasts for their va-jay-jays while the man in my study (myself) can't even look at his own wang in the shower without getting slightly queasy. In short, my experiences teach that it's much easier being a woman compared to the nightmare of being a man. Not only that but based on the sampling of manhood discussed in Ms. Glass' New York Times article, we apparently are also cursed with tiny and ineffectual brains. We men have it rougher than you ladies think.


Lacie Harmon and Robin Greenspan, the lesbian couple of my acquaintance who host a handy vlog inviting you to "ask a lesbian couple." This week, Labin (as they are known in the tabloids) went cross-sexual to discuss a topic that all gender identities will need in the coming months, 11 Must-Haves for Your Trumpocalypse Bunker!. They list essentials you'll require to face the end of the world like alcohol, adult sex toys and more alcohol (if the world wasn't coming to an end anyway, I just might broach to them the idea that they have a little problem). All wonderful suggestions but they fail to consider the one thing you'll need once the radioactive gas clears and it's time to come out: Myself. The overwhelming majority of survivors of the post-Trump apocalypse will be burly survivalists with massive beards who are probably sporting Confederate flag belt buckles. Normally, hot chicks like Mrs. Harmon-Greenspan and Mrs. Greenspan-Harmon would have their pick of such slope-headed survivors. But since they're into chicks themselves, that's not going to help them much. That's where I come in. If the Trump campaign has shown us anything, it's that a hulking thug's primary need for survival is to have someone they can feel superior to. By tossing me out of the bunker door as soon as the "all clear" siren has sounded, Labin will be giving the surviving Trumpkins something to beat up while they make their way to the ruins of West Hollywood with the tails of their plaid flannel shirts waving behind them. It pays to think ahead.


I pondered that the bastard who hacked my Enemies List website in my list of top 10 enemies from 2016 was Sylvester Stallone. After praying on the matter and discussing the various whys and wherefores with experts from around the globe (meaning whatever yahoos I could get the attention of on the social network) as I labor to rebuild the goddamned thing with lists stretching back to 2009 that you people should be on your knees thanking me for having the wisdom to point out your many faults to you, I have narrowed down the potential suspects to four:

  • Vladamir Putin
  • The government of China
  • Some 400 lb. guy sitting on his bed somewhere
  • My longtime nemesis Jesse Merlin

Only after studying the list for hours on end and putting the full power of my brilliant mind to the task did I realize that the sheer magnitude of the crime indicated that it was a fiendish collaboration by all four. Keep in mind that I haven't seen Mr. Merlin in a while (he failed to make my list of top 10 enemies for the first time in six years) and his love of sugary snacks and disdain for activities that are even remotely athletic could have easily seen his weight balloon to over 400 lbs. in the past few months. Both Putin and China would want a man on U.S. soil doing their cyber-dirty work and the hundreds of hours Mr. Merlin has spent Googling his own name would provide him with the computer expertise that they required for their nefarious partnership. But I must admit that it would be cool to add a socially disturbed killing machine from the Vietnam era to the team who wanted to take part because it would mean that "we get to win this time." Maybe I shouldn't rule out Stallone after all.