As many of you know, we're elbow deep into the Republican National Convention. Obviously my prayers for Hurricane Isaac to blow through Tampa like Marcus Bachmann during fleet week went unanswered.
Oh well, you can't win 'em all.
If anything positive has come from the old, rich, white guy Olympics, better known as the RNC, it's that we finally have a confirmed Republican presidential nominee.
Yep, Mittens McMagic Underpants will try to convince enough people that he is likable. And Paul Ryan will continue to spit on rape victims while polishing his dead eyes.
It really is an exciting time for everyone.
Except me.
I've tried, guys, really I have, but my pain threshold just isn't what it used to be. Every time I try to watch coverage, I end up going through the five stages of grief.
DENIAL: This cannot be happening to me.
ANGER: Yes, Ann, he's totally a self-made man, you fucking twat-waffle!!
BARGAINING: Herman Cain wasn't that bad. Can we get him back? I swear to turn in my frequent aborter card.
DEPRESSION: I give up. I don't need equality. I just need to lie in bed for awhile and eat this pint of Ben and Jerry's.
ACCEPTANCE: I can accept this! I can accept this! Trickle-down economics? Are you fucking kidding me?!
And then the cycle starts all over.
Hopefully, you guys are enjoying the RNC coverage more than me. Let me know if there's any good drinking games helping you get through this trying time.
I'm going to go watch Pretty Woman now and try to remember a simpler time when venture capitalists looked like Richard Gere and romanced hookers, instead of attempting to hold office.
No comments:
Post a Comment