They decided to have a Fitbit contest here at work.  It is part of our Wellness initiative.  If you don’t know what a Wellness initiative is, let me define it for you.  Wellness initiative is code for “you people are too fat and are likely to cost us money due to future health problems so we are trying to goad you to lose some weight.  Lardos.”

Prior to this contest, I had no Fitbit.  I was happy in my ignorance.  Sure, I knew what a Fitbit was, but I didn’t really understand what it meant to be Fitbitted.  On the first day, I did 27,000 plus steps.  Not too shabby.  And pretty cool.  My team was in the lead.  This was good.

It did not take long for me to realize the dark side of the Fitbit.  First of all, you must wear the Fitbit everywhere.  You don’t want to miss any hard-earned steps, do you?  It is like a tiny, blue remora.  And, like the shark, you must keep moving.  When you wake in the morning, you go scrambling for your Fitbit.  Those steps to the toilet cannot be recovered.  If you forget to put on the Fitbit, they are lost forever.  Gone to step purgatory.  Meanwhile, the engineers in Building 2 are stepping away, trying to erode our lead.

I crested the 30,000 mark on day three.  Not only had it become a contest between Buildings, it had also become a contest with my coworkers.  I began to get suspicious of them.  How did they manage to get that many steps during the day?  They aren’t in that good of shape.  Did they tie the Fitbit to their dog?  I’d check my status after supper.  In fourth place?  Unacceptable.  Time to walk some circles around the house.  Must get steps.

At the end of the week, exhaustion had set in.  The Fitbit was a succubus, draining the life from me.  Yet I managed to run 8 miles on back to back days.  Pow.  Sons-of-bitches.  You can’t defeat me!  The problem, however, is that all steps are not created equal.  Walking a mile is equivalent to 2000 steps.  Running- only 1500 or so.  Being a runner was punishing me.  It seemed so unfair.  A conspiracy, led by fat, walking-oriented people.  Short legged, reasonably conditioned bastards.

I trudged on despite the unfairness.  The numbers were all that counted.  Seven thousand by lunch.  Seventeen thousand by the end of the workday.  Need at least 25,000 before I go to bed.  And how in the hell did Deb do 34,392 steps?  How is that possible?  One more lap around the house.  Out of my way raccoon.  The Fitbit must have its pound of flesh.  I thought about putting the Fitbit on the raccoon.  After all, the masked bandit doesn’t seem to mind eating my bird food.  I wondered how many steps a raccoon takes in a day.  Probably more than you think.  They have short legs.  Those tiny footfalls would add up.

The Fitbit went with me everywhere.  The Constant Traveler.  It became a kind of moral compass, coaxing me from my inherent laziness.  The steps became all.

After 15 days, the challenge came to an end.  I awoke a free man, suddenly unchained from my Fitbit.  As I got ready for work, I looked at the Fitbit.  It was lying on my dresser.  It seemed to mock me.  I picked it up and put it into the change jar.  “Pussy,” I thought the Fitbit said.  I didn’t bother to respond.

On the bright side, our team won the contest.  In your buccaneer face, engineers.  And people in California and Minnesota.  Suck it, Remote workers.  Tough break, Building 4.  You tried to mount a challenge, but failed.  Pow.  Pow.  Pow.

Meanwhile, my Fitbit is waiting for me at home.  I know it is bad for me.  Yet, I can’t stop thinking about it.  How many steps have I taken today?  I don’t know.  I just don’t know.

Those steps are gone forever.

It was raining.  A dark and stormy day, if you will.  Everything is green, the river is up, flowers bloom in the fields.  So, what does some clown say?

“We need the rain.”  Goddammit, we don’t need the rain.  In fact, unless you are a farmer, you never need the rain.  What do you think, that the aquifer will run out in your lifetime?  I’ll resolve that little bit of uncertainty for you.  It won’t.  It’s not like you live in a desert.  And even if you live in a desert, do you really need the rain?  It’s a desert.  Cacti don’t need rain.  In fact, too much rain kills them.  You will never hear a Saguaro cactus say, “we need the rain.”  Unless he is a suicidal cactus.

Saying you need the rain is just a vestigial artifact from an agrarian lifestyle long past.  Farmers nowadays irrigate.  They make their own rain.  You don’t have to make it for them.  All the rain does is force me to mow my grass every week.  But people like the old time talk.  It makes them happy  to imagine themselves leaning on a fence post, timothy dangling from their mouth, while they watch the tumbleweeds rolling across the dusty field.

“We sure enough need the rain, Clem,” they say.  Clem nods.  Clem don’t say much.  He’s from down Enid way.  He had a wife and son and little place down by the creek before the dust came.  But the dust choked off the farm and his son got the TB.  His wife said she couldn’t take it living out there.  The Big Lonely she called it.  So she moved down to Dallas to live with her sister-in-law and brother.  The brother was in oil.  Last Clem heard, he was making money hand over fist.

“I hate those damn tumbleweeds too!” screams the suicidal cactus before resuming his rain dance.  “Hi hi hi hi, hi hi hi hi.”  The dance is difficult to perform without legs.  But the cactus has nothing to live for.

Interestingly, tumbleweeds are not native to the West.  They are actually Russian.  Ha!  Trump was right.  There are interlopers everywhere.  Did you ever see what happens with those tumbleweeds?  They roll up into a giant tumbleweed ball next to a fence.  What a mess.  Plus, they provide a handy, Russian-made ladder to any shifty Mexican who wants to come to our country and ruin our way of life.

“Shoot that there Russian spy, Clem.”  Clem nods, then squints over his Springfield.  It is an old gun, but reliable.  His grandaddy had used it during the Civil War.  He’d given it to Clem on his eighteenth birthday and told him to take care of it.  Clem pulls the trigger and drills the tumbleweed dead on.  But the illegal alien continues to roll.  Soon the dust obscures it.  Clem spits and wonders if he should move to Dallas.

“We need some rain,” he says before heading back to the bunkhouse.

“No shit,” says the dancing Cactus.

 

 

Did you ever wonder what happened to Jeff Gilloly?  Well, a guy named Jeff Stone killed him.  I mean this in the figurative sense.  Jeff changed his last name in order to start a new chapter in his life.  I guess you could say he is kind of like Darth Vader and I am kind of like Obi Wan Kenobi.  And you are a Jawa.  With a limp and coke bottle glasses.  It would have been extra cool if Jeff would have changed his name to Anakin Skywalker.  I guess he didn’t think of it.  Then again, how smart can a guy who dated Tonya Harding be?  (Before you go picking on Tonya, you should know that she saved an 81 year old woman in a casino by giving the old lady mouth-to-mouth. Pow pow pow.  Right in the kisser.  Literally.)

Anyway, I watched a Tonya Harding documentary the other day.  It turns out that I am glad Gilloly had a henchman hit Nancy Kerrigan’s knee.  He should have clubbed her in the mouth and helped her with that overbite.  “Why?  Why?  Why?”  Shut up, rich chick.  Power to the people.  Say what you will, but Tonya Harding is the one and only trailer park girl to ever be a nationally known figure skater.  She was a poor boxer, however.  I would have figured otherwise.

If you are still curious, Jeff “Anakin Skywalker” Stone is an used car salesman.  He also shaved his mustache and is pretty bald.  Honestly, he isn’t very menacing.  It makes you wonder what would happened if someone had stolen into Hitler’s room in 1938 and shaved off his mustache.  “Why? Why? Why?” Hitler would have said.  “Who has shaven my mustache?  Whoooo?”

I always wondered if Charlie Chaplin could have sued Hitler.

Speaking of things past, it turns out that the Smurfs came from a Belgian comic book.  That explains much.  First the waffles and then some little blue spritelings.  I hate waffles, too.  Maybe if they were sprinkled with blue bits of Smurf I would find them more palatable.  Get me some Smurfyrup and some Smurfeggs and bacon.  A right tasty meal.  I could take a tire iron to the leg of that cartoon artist, though.  Whack!  Whack!  Nice mustache, Waffle Boy.

Sometimes I get nostalgic.  What can I say?  Kato Kaelin is still alive.  And he is still an asshole.  Some things never change.  Perhaps he should change his name to Gilloly.  And get a sex change.  Kay Kay Gilloly and Caitlin Jenner host Whatever Happened to Them?! on Fox.  That show would get some undies in a bunch.  So to speak.

I also don’t understand why O.J. didn’t take care of Kay Kay while he was decapitating people.  At least that would have been a mitigating circumstance.

By the way, if you don’t know who Jeff Gilloly or Kato Kaelin are, I dislike you thoroughly.  Ask Siri.  I’m not explaining it to you.

Stupid coke bottle glasses wearing, limping, waffle eating Jawa.

 

When children are young, it is common for adults to tell them they can be anything they want.  There is some stupid advice.  Guess what, kids.  You can’t be anything you want.  Not even close.  President?  Forget it.  That is for rich people.

How about being astronaut.  Are you good at math?  Like, really good.  And do you think you will get an advanced degree in something like medicine or physics?  You might, you say?  No.  No you won’t.  Give it up now.  Plan on being a plumber or electrician.  You might watch some astronaut movies.  If you are an electrician you’ll probably find the parts where all the module electronics go bad more compelling than the average person.  That’s something.

You will also not be a theoretical physicist or a ballet dancer or a Formula 1 racecar driver.  Actor?  Doubt it.  Unless you have a close relative already acting or directing.  Which you most certainly do not.  Especially if you are reading this blog.

Perhaps you could be a cartoonist, say for the Smurfs reboot.  Once again, get real.  You are the third best artist in your grade.  Do you think the other two kids are destined to be cartoonists?  Because they aren’t.  The one will have emotional issues and develop a drinking problem and the other will be an accountant.  Who daydreams of being a cartoonist.  This is called irony.  (As a sidebar, apparently Smurfette was created by Gargamel.  Some geek pointed this out.  Heh heh heh.  And in episode four Smurfette is wearing a purple bow but when they cut back to her the bow is blue.  Heh heh heh.  Scandal.  Or Smurfandal, if you prefer.  God, I hate the Smurfs.  Stupid little blue things.  You also can’t be a smurf.)

Of course, you could be a blogger.  After all, anyone can be one of those.  You would suck at it though.  You think this is easy?  I’m a damn literary genius.  You think you can compete with the MO?  Maybe you are slated for Apollo 215.  Dream on, little girl.

Every kid dreams of being a professional athlete.  This is even more ridiculous than your astronaut dream.  Have you taken a good look at LeBron James lately?  Let me solve the mystery for you.  You don’t look anything like him.  You are short and chunky and have bad hands.

Teacher?  Why bother?  Doctor?  The school loans will bury you.  Evening news anchor?  Is your name Brick or Storm or Sage?  Probably not.

Perhaps you would like to be the national spelling champion.  And, let’s say you are home schooled for the sake of argument.  Sorry.  This will remain but a dream.  You are not of Indian descent and you cannot be no matter how hard you try.  Pow pow pow.  In your face, pasty-complexioned European mutt.

So children, you can plainly see that you have been repeatedly lied to.  You can’t be whatever you want.  Kind of like I can’t be young again by sucking your lifeblood from you.  Believe me, I would if I could.  The point is that you need to have realistic goals and dreams.  There is nothing wrong with being a shift supervisor at a retail store.  Somebody has to do it.  And it sure as hell won’t be LeBron James.

I forgot something.  You know that really cute girl in the class ahead of you.  Well, her dad is a lawyer and she is used to the high life.  Put her out of her mind.

Maybe her dumpy friend.

 

No list of hated fictional characters would be complete without the Smurfs.  So, I’ll start with them.  But I will ignore all the obvious and instead focus on science.  How in the hell do you end up with 42 males and one female?  Does that make any sense whatsoever?  What happens when the males feel frisky?  Family style with Smurfette?  And is that the kind of thing that we want to be teaching our children?  We teach children that it is cool to blow other people’s brains out.  Pow Pow Pow.  We don’t teach them about the sex parties of blue fairies.

Edward Cullen.  Dumb name, dumb writer, dumb premise.  Humans are prey (or potential fellow vampires) to vampires.  That’s it.  They don’t have love stories with people.  That would be like a person having a love story with a hamburger.  While I am sure that has happened, nobody wrote a book about it.  They filed it away under “shit that no one is ever told under any circumstances.”  Speaking of that, is Papa Smurf the father of Smurfette?  Just asking the question.

Jar Jar Binks.  Just die.  I want to see Jar Jar dried up and smashed flat like a three day dead frog in the highway.

Any character played by Jennifer Lopez ever.  You are not an actress.  In fact, when that kid was stalking you I was rooting for him.  That’s how bad you are.  I rooted for a crazed maniac to kill your character.

Santa Claus in Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer.  First, you blow Rudolph off ,but not before ridiculing him in front of everyone else.  This sets off a series of events where Rudolph is nearly killed by a Bumble.  Fortunately, Bumbles bounce.  And easily submit to dental work.  Regardless, Santa fucks Rudolph over royally.  Right until a storm comes up and it looks like there will be no Christmas.  And if there isn’t a Christmas then somebody has to wait a whole another year to get his ego stroked.  So, the fatass elf in the red suit decides that Rudolph and his nose are awfully important.  Dick.

Rudolph.  Show some self-respect.  If I was you, I would have speared Santa in his tiny Elfin testicles.  And then say, “Have Fireball get you through this storm, dick.”

Unicorns.  To be honest, I only hate you because of how you have been exploited by little girls everywhere.  In real life, you may be a charismatic, macho horse creature who does in evildoers by skewering them with your horn.  Giving them the ol’ corkscrew, you call it.  Instead, you come in pink and pewter and have glitter all over your body.  And you are always standing in front of a rainbow.  It might not be your fault, but I hate you anyway.

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles.  I hate you because I had to watch your first movie like 73 times to placate my then small child.  I also hate you because the idea of mutant, pizza eating, crime fighting turtles whose Sensei is a rat is only slightly less stupid than a 108 year old vampire trying to get on a 16 year old girl.  And playing vampire baseball in a thunderstorm.  What?  The balls would explode if you hit them that hard.  Does physics mean nothing to Mormon writers?

Jesus.  What hero ever dies halfway through the book?  That’s like Cool Hand Luke dying in the box.  Or from egg poisoning.  And then blaming his dad.

Freddy Krueger.  I lost a lot of sleep when I was fourteen because of you.  Just so you know, I was rooting for Jason the whole time.

Pow.  Jason.  Now that is a cool name.  I don’t hate him at all.  If nothing else, I have never seen anybody walk that fast in my life.

Carrying a machete, no less.

The bastard(s) have struck again.  If you’ll recall from an earlier post, signs have been put up in the bathrooms at my workplace to dissuade people from flushing paper towels down the toilet.  But, what do I find yesterday?  Yes!  Paper towels in the bowl and a plunger leaning against the wall.  Apparently, the guilty tried to purge the evidence, but to no avail.  Some people never learn.

On the topic of never learning, I turn your attention to the state of North Dakota.  If you’ll also recall the first wolverine in North Dakota in 150 years was summarily executed by a rancher, thus ending the repopulation efforts of this particular mammal.  Just to show you that this sort of behavior was no fluke, there was another report of human/predator interaction in North Dakota.  In this story, two young men full of fermented beverages and bad ideas, crawled up to a cage holding grizzly bears.  (There used to be grizzly bears in the wild of North Dakota as well.  But ranchers shot all of them.)  Anyway, one of the men got too close and the bear bit him in the hand.  Perhaps to avenge the death of the wolverine,  but maybe just as a general reaction to extreme stupidity.

Having recently been to North Dakota, these stories do not surprise me.  To whit, my wife and I stopped in Jamestown on the way to Montana.  If you are not aware, Jamestown has a giant bison.  Bison also used to roam the state until people shot all of them.  Pow Pow Pow.  And another Pow for good measure.  So we are driving around Jamestown and I come to a four way stop.  Actually, that is not true.  Because there was no stop sign.  I guess a more accurate way to describe the intersection would be a “four way hope like hell some drunken moron just back from wolverine shootin’ doesn’t T-bone my truck” area.  I suppose if you don’t have something you don’t know what you are missing.  Luckily, North Dakota is sparsely populated.  Particularly if you are a wolverine.

If you think I am being somehow unfair to North Dakota, you are probably wrong.  Not that there aren’t nice, intelligent people in the state.  I know that to be true.  It just isn’t encouraged.

On the other hand, I live in Wisconsin where we took away $250 million from the universities and gave it to two hedge fund managers who own the Milwaukee Bucks.  I’m sure that decision will benefit each and every one of us.  Because hedge fund managers are nothing if not sharing people.

All I am saying is that if you are a wolverine, you might want to give Wisconsin a wide berth.

Paper towel salesman, however, are in high demand.

Recently, a wolverine was spotted in North Dakota.  Amazingly, it was the first confirmed wolverine in the state in 150 years.  This wolverine was then summarily executed by a local rancher.  Pow Pow Pow.

“I told you to stay exterminated, varmint!” the rancher cried before pulling the trigger.

The tourism board of North Dakota had no comment to the concerned wolverine community.

In other animal news, visitors to Yellowstone Park put a bison calf in their car.  I guess they thought the calf was cold.  They took it to the park rangers who looked at the people in bewilderment.

“WTF?” they asked.

“The little guy looked cold,” replied the tourists.

“It is a bison,” the rangers answered.

“A cold one.”

The rangers tried to take the calf back to the herd where it belonged.  Unfortunately, the mother of the calf would not accept it back.  Caveat Emptor, I suppose.  Worse, the calf seemed to have gained a liking for human beings.  It kept walking up to people and sauntering across the road in front of traffic.  What a  stupid bison.  Perhaps its brain had frozen a bit prior to its being saved.  Anyway, the rangers finally shot the bison calf.

On a nearby mountain, the ghost of a long dead railroad magnate watched.  When the bison calf went down, the ghost sang out with glee.  “I told you to stay exterminated, varmint!”

Then he turned to his friend, the ghost of a long dead Cavalry colonel.  “So, whatcha’ doing for the afternoon?”

The Cavalry ghost shrugged and twisted his long, blond specter mustache.  “Don’t rightly know.  Maybe we can go on down to the reservation.  There could be a car accident or overdose or somethin’.”

“There are still Injuns about?  Tarnation!  What in the hell has happened to the world.  It’s overrun with varmints these days.”

“You don’t know the half of it.  You should see who they are lettin’ into the bathroom.”

“What’s a bathroom?” said a long dead settler.  He pinched a ghost louse from his greasy ghost hair and held it out for inspection.

The ghost Calvary man pulled his pistol from his belt.  Then he remembered he couldn’t kill somebody who was already dead.  “This is most frustratin’,” he said.

“What?” the ghost settler said.  “Hey, what’s that?”  The former farmer phantom pointed movement in a thicket behind them.

The railroad magnate spirit squinted at the brush.  “It looks like a damned wolverine.  That mangy thing looks like it walked all the way from the Dakota territory.”

The three ghosts watched as the wolverine walked past them.  The wolverine seemed like it was in a bad mood.

“I hate those damned things,” said the Calvary ghost.  “I kilt everyone I ever seen.”

The wolverine stopped and turned to the Calvary ghost.  It snarled and leapt toward the crotch of the military specter.

“Aiiiiieeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!” screamed the ghost as the dead wolverine clamped down on the apparitions testicles.  “Aiiiieeeeeee!!!”

On the road below, an RV pulled to the side of the road.  Two tourists got out.  They looked very concerned.

“What do you think that was?” the husband asked.

“I think it was that bison calf in the meadow, screaming in pain.”

“Oh, no.  We should save it,” replied the husband.

“WTF,” said the bison calf.

 

I hear the Republicans in Texas are going to vote on Secession.  I put “Secession” with a capital “S” because they really mean it this time.  They are mad as hell and they are going to take it anymore.  Y’all.  Fixin’ fer a fight, as the Texans put it (or so I have heard- I’ve never been to Texas).

Apparently, the folks down Texas way have a truck with the taxes they are paying.  Too much they say.  Federal government is overstepping its bounds they say.  Yeehaw and Howdy they say.  Interestingly, the federal government is actually paying more to Texas than Texas is paying out.  Dangnabbit, Texas.  You are a welfare state.  Everything is bigger in Texas.  Even deficits.

One can assume, however, that once Texans get full control of Texas they will immediately be able to turn their economic fortunes around.  Pow Pow Pow.  Just imagine all of those little Yosemite Sams shooting their guns in the air while they make fiscal policy.  Pow pow pow.  No taxes for anyone!  That’ll balance these here books right up.

Unfortunately, it might not be that easy for Texas to secede.  What about the Dallas Cowboys?  They are America’s team.  I think I smell a lawsuit brewing.  For that matter, what about the Houston Texans?  Will Texas have to create an alternate to the NFL?  It’s not impossible I suppose.  Look at Canada.  But not for too long or you’ll go snow blind.  Either that or  turn into an Eskimo.  One of the two.

Texas will also need a new system of government.  After all, they don’t like ours.  May I suggest a hereditary monarchy?  We haven’t had one of those around these parts for quite some time.  The Bush family would be the obvious choice.  I can see George W. and Laura being led into the Cowboys stadium for the inaugural game of the TFL (Texas Football League).  Their national anthem could be “Don’t Mess with Texas.”  It is so beautiful in my imagination.  And only white folk for as far as the eye can see.  It is like an ocean of magnolias.

Austin.  Now there’s a burr in the saddle.  How in the hell did a liberal outpost end up in the middle of Texas?  And become the capital!  It’s a damn conspiracy from those northern liberals.  No matter.  Austin can be its own country inside of Texas.  Kind of like Luxembourg or the Vatican.  Austinbourgacan.  Move the capital to Lubbock and be done with it.

Texas might also think about a new name to celebrate their change.  You know, kind of like when a man name Phil Scott has a sex change and changes his/her name to Destiny Starr.  (Lone Star?  I’m just throwing mud on the wall.)  Not that Texas in any way condones that sort of behavior.  Believe you me that there will be no homosexuality, transgender living, or Charles Darwin in the country of Lone Star.

Anyway, may I be the first to wish the country of Lone Star luck.  Though I do have some bad news for you.  You are sitting on a whole bunch of oil.

And you know what that means.

Pow Pow Pow.

Another Mother’s Day has come and gone.  As you know, Mother’s Day is a time of celebration where each of us shows our appreciation, not only for our own mothers but for all of those wonderful mothers out there who make this country great.  Without mothers, where would we get soldiers?  Of course, not all mothers are so great.

Kris Kardashian has built an empire using her daughter’s sex tape as a springboard (no pun intended).  This empire has now extended to her younger daughters who, incidentally, now have two mothers.  If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.

In fairness, Kris is a bad mother, but there are worse.  Take the case of Megan Huntsman of Utah.  She confessed to fatally strangling six of her newborn babies from 1996 to 2006.  A 2014 search of her home revealed six dead infants who had been stuffed into cardboard boxes.  Apparently, God told her to do it.  I guess Mother’s Day is not a priority in heaven.

And who can forget the stepmother in Hansel and Gretel?  “Ditch those kids in the woods or I’m going back to my mother’s.”  That wasn’t very kind.  Luckily for Hansel and Gretel, living with their stepmother provided them just the training they needed to defeat the witch.  There is a silver lining to every cloud.

Mothers can also make you a serial killer.  See Norman Bates and Jason Voorhees.

There is a lesson to be learned here.  Your mother isn’t that bad.  Yeah, maybe she shouldn’t have pushed you to join the dance squad or been so uptight about you getting into the Ivy League, but such are the vicissitudes of childhood.  And, to be fair, kids can be kind of irritating.

As usual, I digress.  In the end, we owe our mother’s much.  We came from their womb, after all.  We should show them respect, not only on Mother’s Day but on every day.

But don’t get weird about it.  I hate that.

Trump wins, bitches!  I tried to tell you.  But you wouldn’t listen.  You refused to believe.  But I’ll bet you believe now.  Look over there.  That is the body of the vampire Cruz, limbs twitching, a stake planted firmly in its black heart.  Look over there.  It is Kasich, wandering in the wilderness in his night shirt, unsure of how he got here or who he even is.  Pow.  And another Pow.  The people of the Republican party have spoken.

If you think this was some sort of fluke, keep in mind that 17 people tried out for this gig.  Seventeen!!  Even Scott Walker, the google-eyed homunculus of the great state of Wisconsin.  He didn’t last long, Koch brothers or no Koch brothers.  Now he is choking Eddie Murphy who is saying “It was the Kochs, it was the Kochs.”  Don’t worry.  Either you have seen the movie or you haven’t.  If you have, you’ll realize I am hilarious.  If not, don’t blame the MO for your ignorance.  Educate thyself.  Because the Republicans sure as hell aren’t going to put any money toward it.

Anyway, we can get at that wall now.  All we need is several hundred miles worth of concrete blocks, four mountains of rebar, a sea of mortar and an army of concrete workers.  Luckily, Mexico has provided us with a cheap labor force.  Oh, yeah, we are building the wall to keep them out.  Silly me.  Maybe we can all chip in.  We can all make America great.  Or at least make a Great Wall (I am assuming China hasn’t trademarked the phrase Great Wall- if they have, well, sue me.  Or sue Trump.  It was his idea.  I’m just laying block down here in the hot, hot sun.)

By the way, when can we start detaining Muslims?  Since we are building that wall, we can just loop it around and build a corral.  Allah Akbar!  Get in your corral, Akmed.  We don’t like your kind around here.  Unless you are like a heart surgeon for rich guys.  In that case, we can make an exception.  We will also make an exception if you are related to the House of Saud.  Don’t want to piss off those guys.

Once again, I digress.  This post should be a celebration of the greatness of American Democracy.  Let Freedom ring.  Freedom ain’t Free.  “Freee-dommmmm,” says William Wallace.  Free Tibet.  Free Tacos.  Free Bird.  Free visits at the Free Clinic.  Speaking of Free Clinics, Donald Trump said that avoiding STD’s in the New York single scene was his Vietnam.  And you think this guy isn’t presidential?  Balderdash.  Regardless, he has come through the fire while all of the other rats have abandoned ship.

In the end, it is the Orange Cheese who stands alone.

The Cheese stands alone.  And he is an excellent cheese.  Ask anyone.  He is the best cheese ever.