![]() Well, America…the presumptive fat’s in the fire…the alleged goose has been cooked…the suspected fat lady is hoarse from singing…the smooth pavement has run out…and, Nixon’s still dead. For better or worse, we’re stuck with two evils from which to choose. Let’s slap some lipstick on one of ‘em and get on with it. Shall we? In case you’re still in a drunken coma, the Queen of the Unindicted locked up her party’s nomination last night - at least numerically if you count sideways…sort of. Me personally, I woke up around 4AM to the somewhat less than gentle stabs of our peculiarly virginal handler from Southern Living magazine, Brooklynn Hodensack’s pointy-toed shoes jabbing my ribs as she leaned over my somewhat pickled corpse and screamed, “Are you writing yet? Why aren’t you writing? You should be writing! Write! Write! Write!” As I lay there for a few seconds, gathering back together whatever brain cells I hadn’t burned out during our final reception here in Los Angeles while covering the California primary. It had been quite an evening. There was a mix of Trumpsters (each with a dead cat tied to their head), Curmudgeonlies (they never really got into the evening, just sat on a bench along one wall of the suite in quiet reflection), and Clintonistas (all with faux subpoenas stuffed in their pockets). Jerry Brown, governor of California, showed up for a while. He was kind of a drag though. Just kept telling people that he could have been a contender. That he could have been a somebody. But now, here he is stuck in California, where he’s been governor (twice), attorney general, mayor of Oakland, secretary of the state of California, and a novice Jesuit priest. The Trump came by, but only stood in the doorway, wearing that stupid red cap that you see him in, but with an addition…someone has added horns to the sides of the cap. Most remarkably, the Curmudgeon even stopped by. It was the most animated the Curmudgeonlies became all evening. He said he stopped by just to tell us that he’s still in this all the way to the convention. That was just about the time that things began to turn ugly with Clintonistas shouting that he needed to drop out of the race so they can beat The Trump. The Trumpsters then picked up their chants of “Make America great! Make America great!” The Secret Service dudes with The Curmudgeon quickly pulled him from the room and whisked him away to Santa Monica airport to catch his plane for D.C. The Curmudgeon somehow figures if he can win the D.C. primary, he still has a shot…uh huh, a shot at his campaign going down in flames maybe. There were even a variety of Hollywood stars in the suite. Most seemed like normal people. Jane Fonda showed up around 10PM. Cousin Fred was not happy about that and began chanting, “Traitor bitch! Traitor bitch!” Soon the entire room was chanting along with him. She didn’t stay long. As I sat there on the floor, I looked around and soon realized there really wasn’t anyone else here. There were beer and wine bottles everywhere. Lots of oxidized rotting avocado skins…more avocado skins than I would have thought possible actually. Where the hell did they come from? Speaking of Cousin Fred, where the hell is he? He did the same thing to me in Indianapolis…deserted me. His bedroom door was open and the light was on so he likely wasn’t in there. He and Gigi probably slipped off somewhere. As I scanned the room, suddenly the Virginal Brooklynn Hodensack was back in my field of blurred vision with her own chant, “You’re NOT writing! Write! Write! You will write, maggot, or you will die trying!” The Virginal Brooklynn Hodensack was obviously a Marine Corps drill instructor in a previous life. Her phone began ringing. She answered it and began with the “Yes, Sir!” “No, Sir!” “Not yet, Sir!”…as she walked away talking, I saw my chance. I grabbed my bag and ran down to the hotel parking garage. I pointed the car in the direction of The Compound and was soon a dot on the California horizon. Comments are closed.
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