Two Roads Diverged

There’s the other part, though.

I talked to my Dear-Old-Dad on the phone yesterday. Among the things we are is long-time lunch companions. If there is a bar with a good variety of beers and some interesting food, my Dad and I are interested in visiting that place.

This of course is no longer possible these days.

I think it was two Saturdays ago when this coronavirus stuff was just starting to creep into our consciousness, and we were discussing our lunch plans, and he said, maybe we’ll just be safe and I’ll bring Amiel’s over to your place for a movie. And that’s what we did, and we watched American Animals. And we thought this was safe.

As we began to learn more about this thing, its potential lethality, its powerfully contagious nature, its mystery to science, and not to mention the Trump’s pathetic failure to lead on this catastrophic development; as we learned more, it became obvious that a visit like that isn’t safe, him over here, me over there, it just isn’t. There are five people who regularly reside in his realm over there, and every one of them is high risk. And I don’t think this thing would suit me very well, either.

I asked him about it on the phone, if he thought I was being silly not even entertaining a quick visit with everyone. And, if you know my Dad, you know that he’s often more liable to say the phrase “fuck it” than he is to ever say the phrase “well, maybe that’s not such a good idea.” It is one of his best qualities. This is why I asked. I was trying to gauge if I was being weird about this and maybe aw, fuck it, come on over and have a dinner. Plus, I do miss these people.

My Dad did not say “fuck it.” He said he thinks this is what we need to do, that social distancing means social fucking distancing. I am paraphrasing. That this is bleakly serious enough that I need to keep my as-of-yet untested schnoz over here, and they should keep theirs over there.

I do spend too much time steeping in the news of all of this. I can’t not. I am a newshound down to my brain stem, and this is the news now. So when I wake up I watch the Andrew Cuomo Entertainment Hour, then I might keep the news on or listen to some talk radio, then I sit down to do my job, probably with some news on in the background, and I vacillate about whether or not to listen to the Giant Orange Head stand up at his podium while himself ignoring the very dictates of social distancing and lies about the urgency of the problem, and talks up treatments that do not exist, and attacks the reporters who are just trying to access information for the American people, and as he just makes it all up as he goes along with his stupid hair.

And I do, usually. I do usually end up at least listening.

I wish I could say I think this preznit’s shitty performance in this tied-to-the-mast moment is enough to sink his electoral chances, but I think it’s more like Geraldo in Al Capone’s vault, a dismal, humiliating failure followed by a weirdly promising and lucrative career anyway. We thought we had Dubya in 2004 with John Kerry, didn’t we? Thought we had him. Were sure we had him. Dubya will be a one-termer just like his daddy.


Trump said he hopes the virus will miraculously go away. He said this in February. All his opponent should have to do should be to play this clip on national television over and over and over and over and over again, and his opponent should win. Actually, all that should need to happen is that we should have to live through this under the shitty poopy lack of leadership that Fat Phlegmy Orange Dicknozzle is providing, as we all have lived through it. By any normal measure, Trump should see a landslide so huge in November that it actually literally buries him.

But I don’t think this universe supports such input any longer. I just don’t.

Anyway, to summarize, I miss my people, but I don’t want to get nor give sickness.

And Donald Trump is a feckless dick.

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