Two posts in just a little over 24 hours.
I spoil y’all, sometimes. I just want you to know that.
I’m going to keep this mercifully short, because I’m swamped on the run.
At least one of those things is true.
Team CUNTON is sweating Monday’s debate like nobody’s business, with OFFICIAL RULES coming down from On High (interestingly enough, a debate commission chalk full of people who owe favors to the Clintons) that there will be no breaks of any kind, even if one of the candidate’s enters into a prolonged coughing jag – no timeouts, no cutaways, no cutting the mics – it goes forward or not at all.
Also, Team CUNTON demanded a step stool so as to appear equal in stature to Trump. Team CUNTON was denied. However, CUNTON will have a specially made podium so that in single shots she will seem in proportion. In shots of them both, however, she is very likely to look like a cripple screeching from the children’s table at Thanksgiving.
I wasn’t going to watch, but now, I probably still won’t.
Life is too short for that shit.
Eh, I might watch. But I know what’s going to happen. It’s going to be 90 minutes of CUNTON not succumbing to the grip of a Grand Mal seizure, hacking up her esophagus, or forgetting who she is and what she is doing there and who in the Hell are all these people.
No, there will be none of that. She’ll muddle through alive without incident and then her cadre of media lickspittle will hard-high-five each other until dawn while declaring VICTORY! Because that’s really all that’s expected of her at this point – don’t die, don’t succumb to seizure, don’t cough.
Which I’m sure she’ll manage with the help of enough drugs to make a carnival barker blanche.
Time for the weekend.
I’m getting drunk as fuck.
How ‘bout y’all?
Have a bitchin’ weekend and get ‘em the fuck in, friends.
Double-Shot Of My Baby’s Love
Dick Holler & The Holidays
Demo Recording | 1964