BALD AND FREE — HOW CAN THAT BE? (subtitle: The Bald And The Beautiful)

Nothing makes a woman feel as old as watching the bald spot increase on the top of her husband’s head. –Helen Rowland

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Oct. 7 is BALD AND FREE DAY, but personally, I’m not sure what one has to do with the other. I’m mostly bald, all right, but how free is a married man like me? Of course, I’m just kidding — my wife lets me out of my cage for an hour a week, even though I keep getting balder….and making her feel older. Maybe I shouldn’t be using that hour to get a haircut.

HEADLONG RETREAT

As the years go by, my barber
Takes less and less time with my hair
Which only serves to remind me
That there’s less and less of it there.

To be sure, I’m not the only one whose predicament may become a hair-raising experience:

That gave me a headache just watching it. If only I could trust the dubious ads that involve spending my moo-lah to get to the root of the problem, I might risk springing for mo-hair….but snake oil aside, there must be a less painful way to restore a Lost Hairy zone:

Hmm. I wonder whether that great humanit-hairian, Donald Trump, would mind parting with some of his spare hair if I could dig up some skullduggery by his political opponents? For example, much corruption has been reported in the Caribbean nation of Hairti — and it’s surely a lock that all of the Democratic Presidential contenders are involved. All I’d have to do is send my nosey friend, Fruity Giuliani, there on behalf of our Pres with a quid pro-boscis that the Pres of Hairti can’t ignore.

On second thought, if Agent Orange went to my head, my wife might think I’m losing it along with my hair. I might as well keep to my cage, skip my weekly trip to the clip joint, and try to console myself that, after all is said and done….

Now, if I can only convince my wife.

I COULDN’T HAVE SAID IT BETTER MYSELF

For the short-term-memory-challenged among my readers, who may not recall every word of the posts I’ve posted in recent weeks, please allow me to refresh your appalling lack of retentive capacity by re-printing the first sentence of my second-to-last post, to wit:

“First, I want to beg your forgiveness for forgetting to publish a post for you on July 2nd (I FORGOT DAY), for I forgot it was I FORGOT DAY….but even if I hadn’t forgotten it was I FORGOT DAY, I might have forgotten to forget what I forgot.”

I re-print said sentence because, as a model of clarity of composition, it stands as a shining example of a category of phraseology comparable to such other tenebrous testaments to plain speaking as Legalese, Academese, and (The Man on the) Lying Trumpese — the latter not to be confused with this venerable lyrical disquisition of circus fame:

And how, you may wonder, does my phraseologically grandiloquent limpidity compare with analogous sample specimens of the aforementioned Legalese, Academese, and Lying Trumpese? Ask, my disquisitive friends, and ye shall receive:

As stated heretofore, the defendant’s conduct created, caused, and resulted in serious bodily harm and massive injuries, to wit: a broken and mangled left leg, lacerations to the aforementioned leg, and several broken digits on the foot attached to said leg, in witness whereof was the spouse of the injured party.

While the required breadth of content coverage appears to have been the surprise in development of the knowledge or cognitive area, method was unquestionably the potential stumbling block of affective measurement.

In so far as manifestations of infestation by a picayunish faunal species were evident in the residential facilities provided by the agricultural laborers, an unwillingness to occupy, utilize, or in any manner inhabit the facilities was therefore demonstrated by the aforementioned laborers.

But the above paradigms of grandiloquent limpidity pale, of course, in comparison with such clown-simple, yet grandiosely eloquent, linguistics of Lying Trumpese as these:

Wow, highest poll numbers in the history of the Republican Party. That includes Honest Abe Lincoln and Ronald Reagan.

There has never been, ever before, an Administration that’s so open and transparent.

I have tremendous support from women.

Right. And mistermuse has tremendous support from Trump lovers.

 

FOOL PROOF

fool’s paradise, a state of contentment based on delusive or false hopes. –WEBSTER’S NEW COLLEGE DICTIONARY

A fool’s paradise is a wise man’s hell! –Thomas Fuller, English churchman/historian

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July 13 is FOOL’S PARADISE DAY. If ever there was a day to get a handle on the “state” Donald Trump adherents live in, this is that day. Other than living in a “Fool’s Paradise,” how else to account for them being oblivious to what is patently obvious: The Donald is a sick excuse for a human being (much less a President) whose lies, corrupt morality, bullying, ethical poverty, and colossal narcissism do not matter because the economy happens to be booming (“booming” to whose benefit is apparently beside the point).

Fortunately for America, I know a few eye-opening songs to bring a “fool proof” Trump adherent to his/her senses if he/she will only give the songs’ words an ear and take them to heart….which shouldn’t be asking too much because, as we all know, Trumpies would give an arm and a leg to do the ‘right thing for their country. Left with this admonition….

….how can the devoted Don fan of November 2016 (having now been exposed to cool cats, and hopefully less gullible) not begin to think in terms of Don the Con Man and ask….

Cool cat or cool fool, still believe The Donald hasn’t played you for a total sucker? Pause and consider this Trumpian truism come election day, November 3, 2020:

Fool me once, shame on you.
Fool me twice, shame on me.

 

DON’T FORGET TO KISS AND MAKE UP

First, I want to beg your forgiveness for forgetting to publish a post for you on July 2nd (I FORGOT DAY), for I forgot it was I FORGOT DAY….but even if I hadn’t forgotten it was I FORGOT DAY,  I might have forgotten to forget what I forgot. In any case, my bad.

If memory serves me right, friends, they say you never get a second chance to make a worst impression. But now it’s July 6th (INTERNATIONAL KISSING DAY), so let us let bygones be bygones, kiss and make up. After all, if Trump and North Korean dicktator Kim Jong Un can rise above it all on the world stage, you can see that you and I, surely, should be able to get down to a measure of serendipity on this piddling platform (albeit a bit less passionately than The Donald embracing Un). Of course, it would surely help if you….

And just in case you forgot how Trump and Un have come to feel about each other….

Surly friends, it’s TIME to bury the hatchet, forget that I forgot, dig our differences, and pucker up. However, since kissing can transmit 80 million microbes of bacteria in a single buss, I suggest we get off the buss and blow each other kisses electronically. Ready. Set. Blow. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I’d blow more, but I don’t want this post to be X-rated. Besides, I want to leave space for you to return the love….

I’m waiting.

 

ACHING NEWS

Due to the fact that a growing portion of the news on TV in recent years is blown up as BREAKING NEWS, it’s a wonder there’s any news left in one piece. It strikes me that TV ‘journalism’ has fallen into such a decrepit condition, even Humpty Dumpty wouldn’t want to trade places with what remains of it. To those of us who fondly remember the class of Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite, and the like, cable news overkill is a heart-breaking state of affairs — and heart-breaking affairs, of course, can only leave….

Yes, friends, I’m afraid this world has come to a pretty pass. My heart aches for the return of the good old days when men were men, women were women, news was news, and Presidents were a cut above a pain in the dis-ass-ter. Pardon my language, but that’s the….

What’s to do about it?

IF I WERE A MITCH MAN

Remember this song from “Fiddler On The Roof?” —

I bring this up because IF I WERE A RICH MAN made me think of U.S. Senate Majority Leader MITCH McConnell and wonder if there’s a satirical song substituting the word “Mitch” for “Rich” in the song title? So I did a Google, and though the search for IF I WERE A MITCH MAN led nowhere, I did find this:

Sorry about that. There must be a better song (or at least, a less depressing one) with a politician’s name in the title. In fact, I happen to know of a few such songs, and if I were a pitch man, here’s one I could plug to lead you out of Mitch depression:

Remember that, as FDR said, we have nothing to fear but fear itself (except, of course, the fear that The Donald could be re-elected). Hence I elect to sing the praises of my candidate to oppose Trump….

Yes, The Donald will soon find that he has met his match, man. The Wintergreen of his discontent fast approaches. Eat your hearts(?) out, Donald and Mitch man.

 

DONALD DUCKS FOR COVER — MICKEY MUSE GOES UNDERCOVER

No doubt you’ve noticed that America’s quack President, Donald Trump, ducks any probing questions he doesn’t want to answer — particularly about his many phony claims, disingenuous spins, grandiose con jobs, and cheap-shot insults. For example, on May 23 he tweeted agreement with North Korean dictator Kim Jong Un’s claim that former U.S. Vice President Biden has a low IQ. Taking on one of my undercover-reporter gigs, I asked The Donald if a low IQ is worse than a MONUMENTAL EGO. Obviously, he didn’t like the question. Ergo, he didn’t answer. Or maybe he was too busy correcting his tweeted misspelling (“Bidan”) of Biden’s name. But I’ll give him a pass on that one; after all, even I make a spelling misteak on rare — or medium rare (but not well done) — occasions.

Pause.

My fellow Americans, I began this post intending to satirize more (out of countless) examples of Trump perfidy, but what’s the point? We all know what Trump is. Blowing his bilge back at him sticks like water off a duck’s back. It’s time to get quackin’ and get serious: