America’s Recline And Flail Goes On
Fri, 11/06/2020 – 19:40
Ok, so, when your pally is a doorstep
Step over him and coat
When your mommy is a French press
In a café called no hope
Your belly aches
On benches where buses never go
Now tally up the misprints
And tell them told you so
– Tell Them Told You So, by Swingin’ Utters
The Worst Job In The World
Nothing’s shocking in 2020. Not lockdowns. Not pandemic hysteria. And certainly not election chaos. To the latter, it was expected all along.
At the time of this writing, and perhaps with the aid of fraud, it appears Kamala Harris will be the next President of the United States. Here we’ll pause to offer a word of congratulations. Well done, Ms. Harris. You’ve just signed up for the worst job in the world.
No doubt, the rewards of being President, these days, are few and far between. Just ask President Trump. The work hours are terrible, the pay is far less than that of a corporate CEO, and you’re endlessly surrounded by shabby politicians.
They laugh at all your dull jokes. They tell you what you want to hear. They expect to be rewarded with cushy Cabinet positions because they stumped for you in Cleveland or some other mistake of a place.
What’s more, the hand towels aboard Air Force One have the shoddy over washed roughness of those at a turnpike Motel 6. With the exception of being a flatus odor judge, we can’t think of a smellier job than being President of the United States. Can you?
There’s little privacy. Newsrooms across the planet psychoanalyze your every facial expression; many conclude you’re mentally ill. You can hardly wander the halls of your own home in your bathrobe – during night hours no less – without it making front page news.
Our advice to Harris: Quit while you’re ahead.