10 February 12020 is Bertold Brecht’s birthday. It’s also the Feast of St. Paul’s Shipwreck. For whatever reason I am tired beyond belief and about ready to give up on things and join some kind of cult. My right leg is stiff and painful—which hasn’t stopped me from walking the dogs. I’m sure the exercise is good for me, but it doesn’t feel like it.
The Dopey Don continues throwing tantrums in the seat of power, and it’s getting really tiresome. If he can’t do his goddamn job—and after three years of goofing off he’s shown that he can’t—he should just quit already. Not that his likely replacement is at all inspiring. At least he’s shown that he can manage a state—badly, true, but it’s better than Trump’s record of never running anything larger than a penny-ante real estate scam. God, I am so glad I never posted my “Give Trump a Chance” piece, all about how he might rise to the occasion and surprise us all. Sadly, he did not. He proved his critics right, accomplishing nothing but making a big mess that those who come after him will have to clean up at the expense of us all.
Anyway, the tantrums never seem to cease, and the business of the nation is left undone. It’s too bad the Senate couldn’t work up the guts to fire his ass, but I never expected them to. Not under Do-Nothing Mitch, who likes to boast of how his inaction kills Americans. God, what a louse. We’ve had some real turd-suckers in the Senate in the past—the Kingfish Huey Long, red-baiter Joseph McCarthy, the traitor Jefferson Davis—but our present crop take the proverbial cake. Gormless, feckless, gutless, and useless—that’s the so-called Republican party today.
God, I’m feeling faint. Sick, hot, and having trouble breathing. I’m going to post this while I still can…