Black History Month
For the sixth week in a row, Donald J. Trump. Black History Month began yesterday and President Trump marked the occasion by making a statement praising Civil War-era activist and orator Frederick Douglass as "an example of somebody who's done an amazing job that is being recognized more and more, I notice." It was obvious that the president didn't have the slightest idea who Douglass was or even if he was still alive (he died in 1895) but that shouldn't surprise anyone. Like most eggshell-white politicians trying to cozy up to the black voters, the only other African American names Trump could pull out of his ass were Martin Luther King, Jr., Rosa Parks and his own Ben Carson; which is par for the course for a guy who lists Kanye West and Don King as his sole black friends. I suppose I shouldn't feel superior because I'm not really sure if Ben Carson is dead or alive. The difference between the president and me is that I am a fervent believer that Black Lives Matter while Mr. Trump was only willing to give them lip service on February 1st and still managed to fuck up his facts in an awkwardly–worded impromptu speech. Ironically, Mr. Douglass was a gifted speaker who was world-renowned for his eloquence, yet when he visited the White House (the first person of color to do so) he had to meet Mr. Lincoln outside the front door because it was thought unseemly to allow him to enter the threshold. Things have definitely improved since then because when Mr. Trump met with Kanye in Trump Tower, at least he posed for a picture with him inside the lobby.
The always-annoying Amy Ball, who headlined a night of poetry reading last week. I am far too busy soaking my feet and plotting revenge on my many enemies to attend such dos, but my operatives (some of whom are literate) caught Ms. Ball's reading and reported to me that she was nothing short of brilliant. I am familiar with her scribblings and must grudgingly admit that she has the ability to take personal pain and convert it into a moving piece of art that still manages to convey an inner joy which is infectious. And that really irritates me because I know first-hand just how exasperating Ms. Ball is and it bothers the hell out of me that she's able to convince a bunch of long-haired poetry geeks that she is really a sensitive spirit just because she has the ability to convey her inner feelings into poetic statements that allow others to empathize with them because of their artistic power. I can't begin to tell you how cheesy I think that is but I just don't know how to communicate my feelings in words, except to say that Ms. Ball is a no-good doody pants. If I can ever figure out how to make that rhyme with something, I'll have beaten her at her own game.
My longtime nemesis Misty LaRue, who has been mercifully absent from these pages within recent memory. During my long association with Ms. LaRue, I have had the unfortunate occasion to meet (and even to Facebook friend) members of her extensive network of relatives, some of whom are retiring wallflowers from the South with club foots and large collections of glass animals. One of these shy young things posted a photo of a "mansize" box of Kleenex tissue with the irritated caption "What exactly is THIS?"Always eager to assist the younger generation in their quest for knowledge, I responded "You obviously know nothing about masturbation." Within seconds, an angry "1" appeared on my Messenger inbox signifying an infuriated missive from Mr. LaRue chastising me for sullying the innocence of her youthful relation. I immediately and shame-facedly deleted my comment but frankly, I wish someone older and wiser had been that direct with me at that age. It would have saved my mother a fortune in sweat socks.
Facebook, which has been depressing the crap out of me lately. I used to look to the social media for cat videos and insulting comments about how I am afraid of hummingbirds. But since I (and most of my friends) live in the liberal bastion of Hollywood, I am now finding my newsfeed inundated with how we are on the verge of the apocalypse because of Donald Trump. Only this morning I read that Mr. Trump threatened to invade Mexico, how he hung up in the middle of a phone call with the Australian prime minister, that two of his cabinet selections were voted on by a half-filled committee room because the Democrats boycotted the hearing, and that the chairman of freakin' Exxon was confirmed as the country's Secretary of State. If you people can't get it together with some Happy Talk, I'm going to have to do something drastic like throw myself on a nest of hummingbirds. It will be a gruesome death but a happy by-product will be that I won't have to see any more memes about how we're now living in Nazi Germany. Or cat videos. I really hate cat videos.
Carrot Man. I was putting together a snack for my beloved pug Winston when I came across a baby carrot that looked alarmingly like a wang with an accompanying ball sack. Given the circumstances, I had no choice but to put together this little fellow with his manhood dangling in the breeze, and post his picture on the social network. Much to my surprise, he caused quite a stir that made some people swear off vegetables forever (I had to break it to them that most meat products possessed some genitalia as well; with the possible exception of whatever bio-material they make Chicken McNuggets from). Ultimately it was time to dispense with such frivolities and I broke Carrot Man apart so that he could take his place as part of the vegetable casserole I was making that night. But if you stop by to join me for dinner and you're grossed out by the idea of biting into a daucus carota's one-eyed snake, I have plenty of other food for you to chow down on. There's a can of spotted dick in the cupboard.