I don’t always stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve. But I will this December 31, just to be sure 2020, the year from Hell, leaves. The only thing positive about this year is that I didn’t waste any money on a 2020 planner.
I wondered, as did millions of others, what size 15 shoe would fall next. Now we know. Our president and his striking bride have tested positive for COVID. Reports are that the president is exhibiting “mild symptoms.” The UK’s Boris Johnson, almost 20 years younger than the Donald, also started out with mild symptoms. But the virus spanked his backside pretty hard before it left him. As the Donald is fond of saying, we’ll have to see. Boris is back at the top of his game. We can hope the Donald will be soon. I’ve not seen any reports about Melania’s condition. But I’m happy to believe her prospects are good. She’s only 50 and certainly looks, uh, fit. (Damn does she look fit.)
The way things are going, there may be a large asteroid on a path to crash into the Earth next week.
With all these developments rolling out of Washington with the frequency of tropical systems rolling off the coast of Africa this time of year, I’m afraid to look up into the sky, as clear and blue as it is hereabouts this time of year. The way things are going, there may be a large asteroid on a path to crash into the Earth next week. If this imminent disaster were to be confirmed, I’m sure the New York Times (and NYT wannabes) would find a way to blame it on the Donald. (The subhead on their Trump asteroid story would be, “Women and minorities hardest hit.”)
What this untimely health hitch means for the presidential race is anyone’s guess. But I have to think this one will be harder to make lemonade out of than most of what has come already. Even the cheery Ronald Reagan would find it hard to find the pony in this doleful development.
The household names on the left — Pelosi, Schumer, etc. — are saying all the right warm and sympathetic things (or at least they were when I saw them quoted Friday). But one would have to be a 100-proof Pollyanna not to believe that in their hearts they’re as giddy as a leprechaun on St. Patrick’s Day. Their very unsympathetic political hammer will drop very soon now. (“Look, the Donald did such a bad job with COVID that he couldn’t keep himself and his wife from getting it!” And other such below-the-belt non sequiturs, which I won’t mention in case the Democrats haven’t thought of them.)
The aforementioned New York Times has already suggested that the Donald could (you know in their hearts they would prefer to say “should”) drop out of the presidential race. Nice try, Kale Breath. That ain’t gonna happen. The Donald will find other ways to connect with Americans while he’s under house arrest. Stand by for a tweet storm.
The October 15 presidential debate and forensic throw-down may well not happen, over which eventuality I’m sure Clueless Joe is breathing a sigh of relief. But he shouldn’t put the mortgage money on October 22 not happening. Chances are he will have to strap on a healthy Donald Trump that evening. He needs to save such energy as he still has for that one.
And TV viewers will have to get in shape for this word clash and masa-cree. As a lifetime fan of the sweet science (for millennials and snowflakes, this means boxing), I’m tough enough to take it. The Donald’s handlers (to the extent anyone handles the Donald) have doubtless developed his debate strategy. The first three points in the strategy — I can reliably report — are (1) use your jab, (2) throw combinations, and (3) work the body. Those who’ve come along in the age of microaggressions and safe spaces, if they think they can take it, may have to prepare by watching World Wrestling Smackdown before the 22nd. This may prepare them to watch the encounter without reaching for their teddy bears. But for Clueless Joe on the 22nd, facing a resurgent Commander in Chief, there will be no safe places.
In the meantime, Patriots are cautioned to wear their hard hats until November 3. To protect themselves from large falling shoes.
Source: The American Spectator