I Am Alarmed

            As Roseanne Roseannadanna used to say, “It’s always something!”  Just as I am settling down to a nice afternoon reading in the air conditioning, who should ring me up, but my security company.  I live in the sweet, cozy neighborhood into which I was born (though it took several decades herald my return) and in the twenty-eight years since I bought my sweet, cozy house, there have been a few changes here in the country’s fourth largest city.  Crime has been on the rise for some long time now, and having been burgled several times, I invested in a home alarm system.  Take that, you bastard house robbers!  Imagine my surprise when B Security let me know that they were not receiving a signal from my unit.  I certainly don’t want my unit signal-less, so, phone to ear, I listen to this sweet girl in Dallas try to help me solve the problem.  First, alarm the system to “Doors and Windows,” wait a few seconds, and open the front door.  It is 97 degrees today, so I don’t leave it open long.  Soon enough, the most horrendous screech begins emitting from said unit.  Disarm.  Did that fix it?  Nope.

            Plan B: turn off power to house so I can remove the battery.  Uh UH.  With my luck it won’t come back on again, and without AC I move to a hotel or die a slow and wretched death. 

            Plan C: unplug unit so as to remove battery.  Good plan, but the plug is behind the wine fridge.  Which is full of wine.  I debate.  Okay, though I am hardly known for upper body strength, I lift the damn thing, bottles and all, and set it on the floor.  Now to unplug.  But the plug is screwed in.  “Please wait,” I tell Ms. Dallas, “I must fetch a screwdriver.  Snaps for me for even having a set; thank you.  I locate the correct size of Philips and unscrew.  Yay.  Now what?

            Plan C continued:  unscrew the top of the unit and remove it.  Yep, I can manage that. Except I can’t. The plastic cover seems cemented to its base. She suggests I use butter knives to persuade the case cover.  Who has butter knives these days?  As it happens, I do.  Thanks to a cache of my maternal grandmother’s engraved silver.  If D had told me to use a pickle fork, I have one of those, too.    Then, Ms. Dallas tells me to remove the red and black wires.  “No black wire,” I intone.  Only red.”  That doesn’t bother her, so I go to pulling, but the blasted thing won’t budge.  Ms. D tells me to remove all the innards of the thing, which takes a while, because it just won’t let go. At all.  I hope Ms. D has a book or something, because this is taking way too long. I talk to the innards.  I cajole them.  I insult them.  I reprimand them.  Nothing works. In the background, I swear Ms. D is giggling.  She asks me if we’re having any rain. I’m too well brought up t tell her to shut it, so I comment on our weather as if I’ve nothing better to do, and finally get the benighted mess out of its plastic coffin.  “Oh, guess what!” I tell D.  “There IS a black wire.  It was just hiding!”  She seems glad to hear it.  So, I pull them loose, and we wait a bit, discussing the February freeze, and the shame of ERCOT (Electric Reliability Council of Texas).  [Ed. note: “reliability” is wishful thinking for ERCOT].

            Time to restore the red and black wires.  I wonder absently if she has read The Red and the Black, and decide not to ask.  Only nerdolinis such as I read Stendhal these days.  Now it’s time to put the mess back in the case.  But.  It WON’T go.  Will NOT.  Once again, I resort to cajoling and insulting, using the same tone I employed on my son when he was fourteen and (in my view) ready for European Military Boarding School.  Ten minutes it takes.  Ten.  I break a nail.  On my hand, not the machine.  Finally I get the casing lined up semi-correctly, and re-screw the tiny implement into its tiny hole. Replug the unit, screw in the second infinitesimal screw and do a quick victory dance standing in place.

            Doors and Windows again.  Open the front door.  Oh, great, the UPS driver is just unloading my case of EYEtalian water from Amazon, and here I am in one of Travis’ old wife beater tee shirts (complete with wine stain down the front); he pretends he doesn’t see me, God bless him.  In case you are unfamiliar with South Texas weather, in the summer, a wife beater tee shirt and underpants are the costume au courant.  You’d have to live here to understand.  Shut the door. The horror noise begins.  We wait, as I move to another room.  Then:

            Success!  She got a signal!  Yay.  She thanks me for my patience.  I thank her for her patience with my ineptitude.  Then I tell her I don’t know when she gets off work, but I’m having a cocktail.  Right now.  She promises me she will join me when she arrives home.  Done deal.

            But wait.  There is still the matter of screwdrivers, butter knives, wine fridge on the floor, and the various ephemera I moved from the top of the fridge to place it on said floor.  I return everything to its place, and feel my back whine as I lift the fridge.  No need to wait any longer for the cocktail. Nothing prosaic will do.  In the big fridge, there is a bottle of Pralines and Cream liqueur, and with a little shaved ice it will be just the thing.  Except I can’t get the top off.  Really.  It’s not a new bottle, so it must be in league with the alarm system.  They had a meeting one night and planned an escapade to drive me out of what wits I have left.  However, if I can lift forty pounds of cooler with wine included, I’m going to get this damned bottle open. I use a fancy-ass bottle opener I received as a wedding present in the last century, and shove it up the sides of the top.  Several times.  Take that, you recalcitrant liqueur, you.

            It opens.  I pour.  I sip. Ahhhh.

            Warning to future thieves of my happy home:  if you break in, you’ll probably go deaf before you can get out, and Ms. Dallas has a signal to send the local law enforcement officers to my address.  And if you’re looking for an aperitif, I’ve already drunk it all.

Manners, Dude, Manners!

Four and a half years ago I silenced my writing voice.  And you know why.  One of my last blatherings was about divorcing my country.  And you know who was why.  Of late, however, my dearest friend Sandy has been gently suggesting that I returned to my province as ink-stained wretch, and when Sandy suggests, I treat it as royal command.  Thus, I resume, and Sandy can accrue the credit or the blame.

So, it cracked one hundred (100) degrees today in South Texas, and we are barely half way through June.  I am all too aware that running errands in the equatorial heat makes some people hot under their collars.  I, myself, do not sport collars until December, but that’s just me.  In the last couple of days I have experienced several instances of manners observed and manners ignored.  Why should you care?  Because manners, dear reader(s), are the oil that keeps any civilized society running smoothly.  They are closely akin to kindness, and they don’t cost a thing except keeping your bloody mouth shut when you’d like to make someone else angry or uncomfortable. 

On Monday I braved the oven-like atmosphere outside.  Yes, yes, I know, the complainer should move or keep quiet.  But South Texas is my ‘hood, and here I am to stay.  One of the joys of the wet-cotton air is the occasional bitching about it.  Me, bitch?  Never!  Well, sometimes.  Okay, all the time.  You can stop reading now if you are offended by articulated crabbiness.  Anyhoo, there I am at the dry cleaners to pick up my favorite white cotton capri pants, and the sweet woman running things can’t find them.  She says she doesn’t have them. 

          “But how is that possible?” I ask.  “I gave you my ticket.”

She tells me she’ll have to call the plant and also comb through every bagged item in the shop to find them.

          “Oh, I’m sorry you have to do that.”  And I really am sorry.  It’s got to be ninety degrees in the joint and this poor woman is stressed out enough.  She tells me in twenty years of business, she’s never lost anything, and I reassure her that I know, ‘cause that’s how long I’ve been bringing my messy clothes to her.  (I really should wear a bib when I eat).  So, no big deal.  She’ll call me when she finds them.  I leave another oil-spotted shirt with her, and head to my Manly-Man SUV.  Then, the passenger door opens, and voila!, she’s found my beloved capri pants.  I dig out my wallet to pay, and she tells me just to wait until my next pickup and pay for both then.  So, today, I go to retrieve oily shirt, and before I can unload myself out of the Manly-Man, there she is again, opening the passenger door, delivering my dry cleaning, and bringing her credit card swiping thingy with her, so’s I don’t have to leave the Holy Airconditioning of the Manly-Man.  Wow.  I thanked her profusely, and said I’d be back.  She remembered me, my vehicle, and, I think, that I didn’t pitch a hissy fit over the temporary loss of my capris.   She paid me back ten times over with amazing, and I do mean amazing, thoughtfulness.

          Mama always said one should treat the lowest-employed among us as the highest, and I have therefore lived by her lessons.  It always surprises me how many people do not know this little, and free, trick of existence.  Next errand:  a picture of my gorgeous but criminally-intended three-year-old grandson fell off a shelf, hit my ceramic giraffe, and shattered it.  My serenity went with it.  I was given the giraffe on my thirteenth birthday from a friend who died several years ago, and no matter how many times I’ve moved, or to where, I always take the glass critter with me.  Giraffes are a thing in my family because we always grow to unconventional heights and have long necks.  We don’t eat leaves, though.  Green is a color that belongs only on guacamole.  I looked up repair places on the Internet, because the damage was too great for any clumsy attempt I might make with glue and bandages, and found a place in my neighborhood.  Checked the reviews.  All positive, except one.  The woman said “NEVER take your stuff to this place!” and continued with a litany of complaints about the proprietors not delivering her figurine on time and being really rude.  The owners responded with a statement that she had flung the firetruck (compress the letters and you’ll get it) all over both at them in a very loud voice, and stomped out, slamming the door.  Hmm.  Whom to believe?  I decided to go with the owners of River Oaks Glass Repair, and drove off to find them.  Being directionally challenged, of course I guided myself in the wrong direction, and was half-way to another county when I figured out I had done it again.  WAZE was no help.  “Internet not connected,” it insisted.  Okay, I can do this, I reassured myself.  Driving in the opposite direction, I finally reached the correct part of Greenbriar, and sailed right past the place I needed.  Parked and called, leaving a message with name and number and my trouble finding the location.  About half-way through the recitation of my traveling trials, a voice cuts into the recording and says,

          “You sound really pathetic.”

I agreed, and he gave me directions.  I couldn’t follow them.  Circled the block, again.  Again.  Again.  He called me back.  Said he would stand in the front and look for me.  Took another twelve minutes to find the joint, and there the poor guy was, standing on his front porch waving at me.  As I gained my way to the front door, he took the trouble to tell me they were closed on Monday.  Big sign right by the door.  Brilliantly, I asked,

          “Is it Monday?”  Clearly the heat had scrambled what was left of my brains.  I apologized for keeping him waiting, and thanked him over and again for braving the heat just so I could find his driveway.

          Not to worry.  He invited me inside, took my poor pieces of giraffe, and spent fifteen minutes regaling me with his time as a boy in Buffalo, and how he and his brother opened this shop after working for years in a steel mill.  I was fascinated.  He was so nice, so chatty, so interesting, and he opened the door for me on his day off.  How could this be the same man that had been slammed so thoroughly?  He was, though.  He was kind to me because I appreciated his going out of his way for me, and told him so.

          Today, a young woman nearly ran me over in the Kroger parking lot. I reckon I wasn’t moving fast enough for her.  The Kroger cop ran out from the curb, put his hands up, and yelled, “Whoa!  Whoa!” at her.  I thanked him very much, and he smiled at me and said,

          “Some people!  You’d think they’d know not to be in such a hurry.  The cemetery is waiting for them soon enough.”

          Now there are some words of wisdom I shan’t soon forget.  And I wouldn’t have heard them if I hadn’t stopped to offer my gratitude.  I drove home, eschewing news radio for Fifties on Five, listening to Ricky Nelson and being glad I wasn’t in the cemetery.  Yet.  I love Ricky Nelson, by the way.  Like him, I have actually walked on the beach at Waikiki, thanks to my BFF hostess, Sandy.  Thank you once again, darlin’.

It’s a Medical Miracle

Here I am, surrounded by flood waters the like of which South Texas has never seen, but luckier than thousands. A major hospital, five minutes from my house, attempted to evacuate yesterday and was unable because rescue vehicles could not even ford the parking lot. Extremely ill people there with no food, water, or electricity. This is the same story everywhere. And I? No water in my house, still have power and plenty of books to read. Can’t leave because roads are impassable, but I must mention this: all my beloveds, even those I haven’t spoken to in awhile, have been in nearly constant contact, making sure I’m not drowned. To all of you, my love and gratitude for ever and ever.

I’m prouder than I can say of my town. Anyone with a boat or a high-wheeled truck has hit the watery streets to rescue anyone they can find, especially people the First Responders have yet to save. In Texas, by God, we take care of our own. Politics has nothing to do with any of this.

Except.

Oh, yeah, the TrumpAss does not disappoint.

Last week I heard a woman worshipping on NPR. Of the Orange One, she said, “He loves us so. He will take care of us.”

Here is a sample of Donnie’s tweets today:
“HISTORIC rainfall!!!”
“Floods are unprecedented…”
“WOW – now experts are calling #Harvey a once in 500 year flood!”

Here’s a good summation of the situation from the Daily Kos:
“With his threats of a government shutdown, his failure to fill dozens of leadership positions in FEMA and NOAA—including having no NOAA director at all, and staffing the remaining positions with incompetent cronies, Texans are suffering. They are pleading for people with personal watercraft to come save them.
Yet while people are literally drowning, Trump lets them know at least there should be a wall on their border:”

“With Mexico being one of the highest crime Nations in the world, we must have THE WALL. Mexico will pay for it through reimbursement/other.”

His next tweet has to do with recommending a book one of his twit followers has published.

First: Mexico has offered to help us. Mexico will help us, since apparently our national government has better things to do.

Second: WOW! HISTORIC RAINFALL! Why don’t you tell us something we don’t know, you egregious fool? He claims he’ll be coming to Texas, but not to the disaster areas, so’s he won’t get in the way. Here’s a clue, Drumpf: don’t bother to get on the plane. We don’t want you here. Harris County especially doesn’t want you here. We didn’t vote for you, and your incompetence, arrogance, and solipsistic presidency have proven you unwelcome in the state of my ancestors. Stay home and play golf.

Which brings us back to the acolyte on NPR who claims Donnie loves us so much and will take care of us. You’ve heard, I presume, of tragic cases in which a fetus develops into a full grown baby with no brain in its skull. These babies, if delivered, don’t live, and there is nothing modern medicine can do about them.

But now: WOW! HISTORIC survival! A woman born with no brains actually speaks on NPR! Can you believe it?

And by the way, King of the Twitsters, it’s an 800-year flood.
Lord have mercy on us; thank you to the Mexican Government; thank you to the brave souls steering boats into neighborhoods just to save people they don’t even know; thank you to all those worried about me; thank you to Texans for being who you are. Love and gratitude, the Curmudgeon.

If I Were Queen of This Jungle (and Don’t Call Me Sheena)

One might suppose that the leader of the most powerful country in the world would take his or her responsibilities as the weight of Atlas, who bore it all upon his shoulders. One might suppose. And one would be living under a rock massive enough to crush the IQ right out of you. Yep, the state of our nation has changed. Bigly. No need for further comment, because any judgment rendered today would be cast aside as irrelevant tomorrow by an even bigglier idiocy coming out of Washington. (George is probably cringing in his grave at the depths to which his name has fallen).

I no longer suppose, but I will propose. If the presidency is a malevolent office, let us be rid of it. “Lock him up!” Repeal and replace, and I venture to replace with a monarchy. With, you’ll never guess, me. Curmudgeon for Queen. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? And what, I know you will ask, are my qualifications to ascend to a throne of absolute power? Let us consider the percentages. You will agree that such a ruler must possess qualities of the very few. She must bear traits that almost no one else, living or dead, can claim. And I have got them, in spades!

1. The rarest eye color in the world is green. I’ve got ‘em. Puts me in top two percent of the population. Check.
2. 98% of people have a lower IQ than I. Not going to tell you what it is, and it’s no brag because I didn’t have to work for it, since I inherited it from my parents and grandparents. However, there it is. I’ve a workable intelligence. Top two percent. Check.
3. Again, thanks to Mama and Daddy, I’m tall. Way tall. Less than 5% of the population measures up to me (and that includes men, nyah nyah nyah). Therefore, I can reach the top cabinets in the White House kitchen without use of a ladder. Top five percent, I’m telling you. Check.
4. As best as I can tell, because records are spotty on this one, having a Master’s Degree in Literature puts me ahead of 90% of the rest of you. Part of this has to do with the sad fact that almost nobody majors in literature anymore (no money in it, you see), and even fewer nobodies suffer the slings and arrows of gaining a postgraduate degree in same. That is I, top ten percent. Check.
5. I carry O negative blood. I share this rarity with only 7% of the human family. For math-haters such as I, that means that 93% of the planet has a more than common blood type, and as we know, blood is the staff of life. Top seven percent for me. Check.
6. My house is one hundred and seven years old. For inhabited homes in the United States (not Europe; even the drug stores are older there), that puts my domicile is the .06% range. Less than top one percent! Check.
7. Favorite movie of mine for all time? Dr. Zhivago. I failed to find statistics on who shares my opinion on this cinematic masterwork, so I’m going to take a flying guess. 5%. I base this on knowing a fairly representative range of the population, and no one else in my realm names David Lean’s film of Boris Pasternak’s brilliant novel as number one. Top five percent for me in knowing what the greatest movie of all time is. Check.

So, there you go. My qualifications to be Queen of the United States. Or Queen of the Untied States the way events are presently unfolding. What decrees would I issue my first hundred days on the throne? Some, but not all:

1. After military and infrastructure funding, top priority for money goes to: Planned Parenthood, Habitat for Humanity, National Endowments for the Arts and Humanities, homeless shelters in every city, food banks in every city, Social Security, Medicare and Medicaid, renewable energy research, medical research for Alzheimer’s, cancer, MS, CP, blood disorders, and any medical issue that affects women. If you want to add to this list, I will be holding court once a week in the throne room, and I will entertain petitions from two until four o’clock. Submit your petition to my Counselor of Petitions, and we’ll get back to you as soon as possible.
2. LGBTQ people are hereby granted full civil rights to marry, adopt children, serve in the military, buy and rent houses, purchase wedding cakes, and anything else they damn well please as long as they do not impinge on the rights of anyone else. By “rights,” I mean legal, people. If your religion teaches you that gays are abominations, you don’t have to make the cake, but get ready to be boycotted, by order of Her Majesty.
3. Homelessness must end. I shall reverse Ronald Reagan’s draconian order to empty the psychiatric hospitals onto the streets and let the poor dopies fall where they may. If the homeless are mentally and/or physically ill, they shall be attended to. For the homeless who like it that way, you may move to Homeless Arenas, which will be set up in designated areas with no traffic. Sorry guys, I swerved one too many times to avoid hitting you and your paper cup from Burger King.
4. Anyone who wants to go to college will go. I’ll pay for it out of my treasury if necessary. If your grade average falls below 3.0, you’ll have to get a job and pay for half your tuition.
5. Mathematics will no longer be a requirement for those pursuing a Bachelor of Arts. Period.
6. Fox “News” will be removed from network television and placed on Pay Cable, and it will cost three times as much as HBO.
7. Cities and states will continue to hold municipal and state-wide elections for governing forces. No laws. I make those. However, if mayors, governors, and their elected underlings try to make any portion of law-abiding citizens miserable, I will replace you. Once replaced, elections for that office end.
8. Women’s reproductive rights are RIGHTS. No one interferes with a woman’s choice about her plumbing or when or if she reproduces. Violation of this law results in long prison sentences.
9. Speaking of prisons, we’re going back to President Obama’s notion of fining and educating non-violent offenders. It is ridiculous that this country has the highest incarceration rate in the world.
10. Marijuana will be legal. If you don’t like it, shut up.
11. Drug rehab centers are free and open to all.
12. Minimum wage will be $15.75 an hour.
13. Rapists will be chemically castrated. No need to fill up the prisons with those shitheels.
14. Prostitution will be legal in the 49 states which now outlaw it. There must be better ways to make a living, but to each his own. States will monitor the trade in the same fashion as Nevada. The folks there seem to know what they’re doing.
15. Jennifer Lopez will not appear in public ever again unless her breasts are covered.
16. Religious freedom means that all religions require equal respect, unless there is Kool-Aid involved. Scientology will lose its tax-exempt status, and should the cult try to sue my government, that whole pit of snakes will be disbanded. Mormon “cults” which practice polygamy with all its attendant abuse will be removed from whatever lands they have managed to acquire, and all the men therein will be sent to an island for “redirection.”
17. English will be designated as the official language of my country. You will get tax credits for any other languages in which you prove yourself proficient.
18. Rush Limbaugh will be silenced. Either voluntarily or by any means necessary.
19. Climate Change will be declared an official National Disaster, and all funds necessary to correct it will be dispersed immediately.
20. No corporation or company will deny any female employee’s insurance the right to reproductive freedom. I’m talking to you, Hobby Lobby.
21. The Catholic Church will shut up about who’s going to be excommunicated and who’s going to Hell. You’ve had twenty centuries to judge people, and that is more than enough.
22. All standardized testing in public schools will end. Today. I have seen the last sobbing sixth-grader nearly hysterical with worry over the STAAR test that I am going to see.
23. Bill Gates and Jeff Bezos will meet with me regularly to discuss how much of their money will go to my most necessary programs.
24. The Top One Percent who hoards most of the money in this country will meet with me regularly for the same reason. Get ready to open your portfolios, gentlemen and ladies.
25. The tax rate for 95% of the country will be a flat 10%. The tax rate for the rest of you will be whatever the Queen decides you can afford.
I ask you then: take a look at my statistics and my plans for a monarchy and tell me who is more qualified to govern. Queen Curmudgeon or “Sad,” “failing,” “disaster,” “low-IQ,” “lying” Donnie Dumbass? You pays your money and you makes your choice.

The Good, the Great, and the Absolutely Despicable

If you have never read novels by Mary Doria Russell, you have missed out. Big time. Her two best are Doc, an equisitely written story about John Henry Holliday, and Epitaph, a mesmerizing novel about the events leading up to the gunfight at the OK Corral. I’m not a rabid western fan, but I would read Russell if she wrote about her grocery list, she is that good. I recommend both novels as “do not miss!” Doc Holliday speaks in tones of honey to tell universal truths of which we all need to be reminded from time to time. Here is his advice to a battered woman in Epitaph: Ýou have terrible taste in men. I am no prize, and I have friends who treat their livestock better than Mr. Behan treats you. Raise your sights, sugar. Aim low? All you’ll hit are rats, snakes, and rock bottom.”

And with the rat and snake vermin running our country now, we have indeed hit rock bottom. Here is a small sample of proof from recent weeks.
After visiting Yad Vashem, a Holocaust memorial in Israel, it is tradition for world leaders to leave a message. The first message was left by President Obama. The second by #45 and his wife (who should definitely take Doc’s advice, in my opinion). The first speaks for itself, of an educated, intelligent, caring man who understands our complex world and the absolute need to never abandon the fight against evil, ever present. The second, as one wag put it, appears to have been written by some random dude in your fifth period algebra class.

“I am grateful to Yad Vashem and all of those responsible for this remarkable institution. At a time of great peril and promise, war and strife, we are blessed to have such a powerful reminder of man’s potential for great evil, but also our capacity to rise up from tragedy and remake our world. Let our children come here, and know this history, so that they can add their voices to proclaim ‘never again.’ And may we remember those who perished, not only as victims, but also as individuals who hoped and loved and dreamed like us, and who have become symbols of the human spirit.” Barack Obama

And then there’s this:

“It’s a great honor to be here with all of my friends—so amazing + will NEVER FORGET!” Evil Pumpkin.

I mean, really? THE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES and his silent wife left THIS as a message to the world???!!

The tragedy is that we should hardly be surprised.

There are so many people in our country who personify dignity and grace. Donnie Dollhands personifies DIS-grace. “So amazing!”
And yet, here we are. How do we cope?

Here’s an idea: Cease pondering our new country of Trumpghanistan, and go buy some Mary Doria Russell books. SHE is the real “amazing.”

No More Fox in the “News” Hen House

With apologies to Hughie Cannon, Kirby Shaw, and Patsy Cline

“Won’t you go home, Bill (o) Reilly, won’t you go home?

I cheer the whole night long

I’m cookin,’ honey, and drinking: “so long!”

You know you done ‘em wrong.

Remember that rainy eve’ that

You got your ass kicked out

With nothin’ but twenty million bucks?

Yes, I know that you’re to blame, and ain’t that a shame?

Bill (o) Reilly, won’t you please go home?

Well, I know that you’re to blame, and ain’t that a low-down shame

Bill (o) Reilly, won’t you please go home?”

And the (o) stands for zero, which is just what you are, good Catholic daddy and husband, who spouts morality while chicken-hawking every woman at Faux News. The sad part about this is that it took a social media firestorm and the loss of 50 advertisers to get your bosses to finally drive you out.  It wasn’t the 13 million bucks they’ve paid over the years; that’s the price so you can act out all your sexual predatory fantasies to your tiny heart’s content.  It’s the publicity, Bill.  Oh, the publicity.  But don’t worry.  Trumplestiltskin says you’re “a good guy,” so move to Washington.  Maybe you can get a cabinet position.  Like, say, Deputy Secretary of All Rat’s Ass Hypocrisies.  Go home, you bastard, go home.  And rot.

Chickens Flapping Home to Roost

The evil that men do lives after them, but sometimes it turns around and bites them in their asses. Asses to assess, dust to dust.  The chickens of the righteous are flying fast these days, and here is a list of “who’s sorry now?”

Our #Notmypresident said quite clearly, “the good people will not be deported, the good people will be checked.” “Checked out” is what he meant.

Helen Beristain voted for the Trumposaurus. Now her husband of twenty years, Roberto, has been deported to Mexico.  For two decades Mr. Beristain operated a steak eatery, and was in possession of a Social Security card, a work permit, and a driver’s license.  He went to check in with authorities, as he has done annually, to see the progress of his citizenship process, and Donnie’s thugs threw him out of the country.  He was TruDUMPED without his lawyer’s knowledge and despite pending legal action to allow him to remain in the country.  Purveyors of sirloins must be rapists, terrorists, drug-runners, right?  Mrs. Beristain is beside herself, saying that if she had known what the Drumpf was going to do to her family, she “wouldn’t have voted at all.”

Well, Helen, here are some words for you to live by: “Stupidity is the same as evil if you judge by the results.” (Margaret Atwood).  People who did not vote helped put the Evil Pumpkin in the White House.  Abandoning your sacred duty as part of the electorate would have helped you not at all.  Enjoy your life without a breadwinner, won’t you?

Last week marked the death of Jean Rouveral Butler, who was a few months shy of her 101th birthday. That’s an accomplishment in itself, but when you look at how she endured the tragedies of a government out of control, it’s even more impressive.  Never heard of her, you say?  I hadn’t either, but I’m very glad I have learned about this remarkable woman.  First, here is her picture 

Lovely, isn’t she?  Also brilliant, resilient, courageous, and faithful.  Like her mother, Rouveral was an actress turned writer.  She created the character of Andy Hardy for Mickey Rooney (man, did he owe her BIGLY), wrote “Dance, Fools, Dance” for Joan Crawford (ditto), and entered Stanford before she was 18.  During summer break she was pulled from a Hollywood Bowl production of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to star in 1934’s “It’s a Gift,” as W. C. Fields’ daughter.  She was not pleased.  She didn’t appreciate being yanked out of Shakespeare to act with “this drunken vaudevillian.”  She had no way of predicting the film would become a classic, or that Mickey Rooney would become the Number One Box Office Draw in the world.  Still, she made another dozen films, including “Stage Door” with Katharine Hepburn, “Private Lives” with Claudette Colbert, and “Annabel Takes a Tour” with Lucille Ball.  After marrying Hugo Butler, Rouveral left the movies to rear her children, though she was often heard on the radio.  While Hugo served in World War II, his wife wrote her first novella and sold it forthwith to McCall’s Magazine.  She was thirty-two years old at the time.  Five years later, her first screenplay was made into a film, “So Young, So Bad,” starring Paul Henreid and (in her film debut) Rita Moreno.  Lots of firsts involved with Jean Rouverol, both for her and the people she wrote for.

Then came HUAC.  In 1943, when the U.S. was still allied with the Soviet Union, Rouverol and her husband joined the Communist Party.  In 1951 HUAC tried to subpoena both of them.  They had friends in the Hollywood Ten, and knew that First Amendment rights meant nothing to McCarthy and his gang of thugs.  So, they took their two children and emigrated to Mexico.  There they had two more children.  Labeled “subversives and dangerous revolutionaries,” they did not return to their country of origin until 1964.  While they lived in Mexico, Dalton Trumbo, the most celebrated blacklisted novelist and screenwriter of them all, came to live with them.  He’d spent eleven months in a federal prison for refusing to cooperate with HUAC.  Rouveral did more than play hostess to famous Americans.  She wrote three screenplays, all accepted into production, but only because Otto Preminger’s brother arranged to have other members of the Writers Guild of America put their names on her manuscripts.

Back in the U.S.A., the Butlers moved to California and collaborated on scripts. Jean Rouveral Butler wrote and had published her first (there’s that word again) non-fiction book, Harriet Beecher Stowe: Woman Crusader.  After Butler died in 1968, Rouveral went back to writing scripts, this time for television.  She penned a story for “Little House on the Prairie,” and was co-head writer for the soap “The Guiding Light.”  That stint earned her two Emmy nominations and a Writers Guild Award.  From 1984 she taught at USC and UCLA extension.  In 2000, at the age of 84, she wrote and had published Refugees From Hollywood: A Journal of the Blacklist Years.” Jean Rouveral left behind a stunning legacy: one son and five daughters, eight grand-children, five great-grandchildren, an unforgettable legacy of screenplays for film and television, and (believe it or not) a gothic novel.  It’s called Storm Wind Rising. To honor her, I bought it, and guess what?  It is good.  REAL good, as we say in Texas.  The woman was a gold mine of talent.  She was also a faithful wife and mother, a teacher, an actor, a multiple award winner, and if living well is the best revenge, she certainly avenged herself on the scum known as Joseph McCarthy, who is remembered only as the Sewer Rat of Congress, now waving his fictional list of Communists in the State Department in one of the deeper circles of Hell, while demons pitchfork him in his big fat mouth whenever he opens it.  Brava, Jean Rouveral Butler.  You are living now in the light, while the reptile who drove you away is basking in darkness.  And speaking of darkness: when questioned about the “darkness” of his character, Steve Bannon replied, “Darkness is good.  Dick Cheney.  Darth Vader, Satan.  That’s power.”  Say “so long” to the Security Council, Steve.  You may be deported to Hell to hang with your buddy, Satan, any time now.

And so it goes.

Mike Flynn is a big fat liar. Bye, bye, Mike.  Won’t be seeing you around.

And let’s not leave out K.T. McFarland among the left-outs. The Deputy Nation Security Director has been asked to step down for unknown reasons, but she does get a consolation prize:  Ambassador to Singapore.  (Ick).  Bye-bye, K.T.

Richard Spencer, inventor of the “alt-right” has announced he may well support Hawaiian Representative Tulsi Gabbard in 2020. She’s a DEMOCRAT.

Paul Joseph Watson, a “conservative theologian,” let us know that “Trump is just another deep state/neocon puppet. I’m officially OFF the Trump team.”

Devin Nunes recused himself from the Russian investigation because of ethics charges against him.

Bill O’Reilly (and Faux News) have shelled out over $11 MILLION since 2002 to five women for sexual harassment. A sixth woman is not seeking money, but she still accuses him.  Meantime, over 50 sponsors, including Mercedes and General Foods have withdrawn advertising from O’Reilly’s “no spine” (if he had a spine, he wouldn’t be so yucky) zone, and more are jumping ship all the time.

And then there’s the EP, who swore up and down he would keep our country out of the Middle East, but launched missile strikes on Syrian airfields (without putting them out of commission), and he had NO approval from Congress to do so. His actions, he said in 2013, “would be a big mistake.”  He also just said Bill O’Reilly is “a good guy,” which is what any serial sexual molester would say about another.  Remember when the EP claimed he would be suing all the women who came out against him as a sexual predator?  Not a single suit, so far. I wish, oh, how I wish he would sue them.  The fallout from that would be heartening, indeed.

And what does the Dumpfkoff have to say for himself? How about this:

“Hey, look. I can’t be doing so badly, because I’m president and you’re not,” he opined to a Time reporter during an extensive interview.  Well, why not?  If EP can reference Chevy Chase (“I’m Chevy Chase and you’re not”) from decades old SNL shows, and quotes the National Enquirer to defend his accusation that Ted Cruz’s father had a hand in JFK’s assassination, why should he not quote Klown Kar philosophy as “facts?”

In TheGuardian, Lawrence Douglas defines the power of Trumpspeak:  “a speaker can never be accused of lying if he’s simply repeating the statements of others,” even if the source is the world’s phoniest, most libel-laden “newspaper” in the world, or an “expert” from Faux News.  “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold,” wrote William Butler Yeats.  Why should we attend to Yeats now?  Because EP is the “what rough beast” (“its hour come round at last”) that has completed his journey of “slouching toward Bethlehem to be born.”

And, “The best lack all conviction, while the worst/Are full of passionate intensity.”

We know who are worst are. The “best” is every Democrat who ever went along with any, and I mean anything, the Republicans have shoved through Congress of late, including the confirmation of Neal GorSUCKS.

Trumpass justifies himself with, “Hey, I went to Kentucky two nights ago. We had 25,000 people.

All righty, let’s talk numbers, then.  Fifty (50) percent of Americans consider themselves “concerned believers” in global warming.  Two years ago, only twenty-seven (27) percent believed in climate change.  I put the numbers in parentheses for those like Trump who can’t read hyphenated words.  But to #45, global warming is a myth, and his head of the EPA agrees with him.

The United States had more incarcerated than any country in the world until President Obama urged law enforcement to back off long jail terms for non-violent offenders, such as those carrying a little weed in their backpacks.

Now Secretary of State Rex Tillerson calls for  launching an all-out war to bring those dangerous non-violent criminals who occasionally smoke a little dope into prison for a long, long time. And never mind about all those states that have legalized marijuana.

Just imagine how well mass criminalization will go over.  Think of the Hindenburg landing in New Jersey.

Flap flap, boys, flap flap.

 

Trumpalumpa vs. Curmudgeon

I’ve been looking around for something other than politics to grouse about, but other than telling Marie Osmond to SHUT UP—we KNOW you lost fifty pounds, and WE DON’T CARE—the past couple of weeks have been like a big juicy lunatic steak, and to quote Funny Girl, “I just gotta take my bite, sir!”

Reckoning I’m safe from the government (knock on the head of the “president”), I took to imagining what might happen if the Evil Pumpkin actually read my words. Since my platform is neither Breitbart “News,” Faux and Friends, nor Kellyanne CONway, I’m pretty sure I’m safe, but what if someone “leaked” my writings, or “taped” (sic) my wires?  The imagination reels.  So here goes:  Tweets from Not My President concerning the Curmudgeon.

“Why isn’t this enemy of the people being reported? Tremendous disaster!”

EP decides to start The Wall in my hometown, 40 miles north of the Texas border, just to keep those pesky Galvestonians in their place. He has chosen my backyard to begin playing with his life-sized Legos:

“Eminent domain! Eminent domain!  Squawk squawk!  Donnie wanna a cracker!”

Perhaps the Trumposaurus Rex will rear its tiny claws and giant head (pea-sized brain included), and decide to expand his golf club empire. As of December, 2017, he was in possession of 17 golf clubs around the world.

“Not enough! Need more!  Need more!  Cracker!  Squawk!”

My town boasts 49—that’s FORTY-NINE—area golf clubs, which can’t be enough for the avaricious NotMyPresident (look it up, Donnie).  His choice of land?  My tiny little lot with its 107-year-old house.  Not really even big enough for a putting green, unless he pulls the house down.

“House old and ugly! No gold leaf anywhere!  Putting green will be tremendous!  House owner old and ugly!  I wouldn’t do her!  Let her live on the streets!  Serves her right!”

My ancestors emigrated from England several centuries ago. Clearly, I have no real proof of citizenship.  I must be a terrorist from Albion (look it up, again, you Twit-in-Chief).  Send ICE after me!

“She sez she was born here! Ha!  Lies!  All those Brits lie ALL THE TIME!”

So, I’m deported to a country where I know no one, I can barely speak the dialect, and I’ll never see my beloveds again. But, hey, who cares?  Better me than you, right?

Also, I am one of the three million who voted illegally. How does the Trumpet know?  Because Harris County hasn’t gone Democratic since 1967, so it must be VOTER FRAUD!

“Harris County shipped in millions of illegal aliens to vote in the sacred election. Hillary didn’t win squat!  She’s a twat!  I’m a poet!  Prison for all those fraudulent voters!”

Oops. I guess it’s off to Huntsville for me.  Is that before or after I’m shipped (steerage, of course) to the UK?

And I had better not get sick on my way to the boat or to prison. My health care plan is gonna come tumbling down, and it’s all my fault.  Know why?  My greed has led me to hang on to my four-year-old iPhone.  Just ask Representative Jason Chaffetz (R-Utah), one of the Trumpeter’s pets:

“You know what, Americans have choices. And they’ve got to make a choice,” the House Oversight Committee chairman told CNN’s “New Day,” one day after the House GOP unveiled its plan to replace ObamaCare.

“And so maybe, rather than getting that new iPhone that they just love and they want to spend hundreds of dollars on, maybe they should invest in their own healthcare.”

Yep, that’s us, America. Blow off our insurance so we can buy new phones.  Everybody does that, right? (Little reminder: members of Congress get the best health care available anywhere.  For free).

“Stop buying expensive phones! Pay for your own Obamacare.  I mean Trumpcare.  Trump don’t care!  Ha! I crack myself up!  Squawk!”

Our prestige in the world has fallen by nearly 100 percent. U.S. News and World Report released the following:

“The whole world was watching the U.S. election. And for the most part, it didn’t like what it saw.

More than 70 percent of survey respondents lost respect for U.S. leadership as a result of the toxic nature of the U.S. election, according to a poll conducted for the 2017 U.S. News Best Countries Rankings.

That sentiment, combined with global distaste for Donald Trump, played a role in the U.S. falling from the No. 4  Best Country to No. 7.”

But since I’m such a low-IQ, moronic loser, this, too, must be my fault.

“Curmudgeon Blogger ruining our country! Readers hate her, and hate the country cuz she lives here!  LOSER!  LOCK HER UP!”

Even worse, my heart aches for the 50,000 asylum seekers that the Evil Pumpkin has cut off in the name of “national security.”

“Of 3,024 deadly terrorist incidents by foreign-born attackers since 1975, only three were refugees — all Cubans who committed their attacks in the 1970s before more thorough screening was introduced in the next decade — according to a report by the Cato Institute last year.

The chance of an American being killed in a terror attack perpetrated by a refugee is 1 in 3.64 billion, the study said.”

“Fake news! She makes it up!  Everyone in her family are English terrorists.  Want this country to be a monarchy!  Surprise!  It already is!  Ha ha squawk!”

I take issue with Ben Carson’s allegations that slaves brought into this country were “immigrants” who “worked hard” and “made better lives for themselves.”

“Stupid Curmudgeon! Doesn’t know history!  Probably thinks slaves were miserable, not brave pioneers!  LOSER!  MORON! CRACKER!!!!”

Yep, you’re crackers, all right, Donnie.

Squawk squawk.

 

Welcome to the Idiocracy

When every single word coming from someone’s mouth is a lie, the only way to frame those words is label them something apart from reality, thus making them reality. Our current president, Evil Pumpkin, employs a bimbo named Kellyanne Conway to construct this reality.  It is called “Alternative Facts.”

Don’t you just love it? There is an accurate definition of “Alternative Facts” that I like to employ:  “fiction.”  Before you succumb to outrage, remember that you were warned.  George Orwell’s 1984, in which a totalitarian government pretending to be benign, creates an alternative language, Newspeak. If you haven’t read 1984 since high school, take another look.  If you’ve never read it, now is the time.  The Monster in the White House has barely taken his place in the Oval Office, and we’re already in chaos.  (Visited any large airports lately?  No?  How about Yemen?  No?  How about New York and other cities where “aliens” are being rounded up and shoved out of the country?).  Donnie claimed he would not touch Medicare or Social Security.  He’s already hatched plans to privatize them.  He said not three weeks ago that he would have a replacement plan for ACA “very soon.  Within two weeks.”  So far, nothing.  His pick for a new Supreme Court Justice, clearly a well-educated right-wing radical, is justified because “the Christians are going to love him.”  We know exactly which “Christians” he’s talking about, do we not?  The very ones who turned “Christian” into a pejorative term.  If people are rude enough to ask me if I’m a Christian these days, I always say, “No, I’m an Episcopalian.”  If they appear puzzled, which they usually do, I continue “Anglican?”  Usually this is interpreted to mean that I’m a member of some African cult religion and ought to be locked up before I spill state secrets to ISIS.

Those of us who make our livings by language and worship words (see? cult member!) do not call out the creators of “Alternative Facts” without evidence. So here it comes.

After Mexican President Enrique Pena Nieto cancelled a meeting with the Evil Pumpkin because EP tweeted him the meeting would be “fruitless” if Mexico wasn’t going to pay for a wall on United States’ land, (refusing to fund the thing “wouldn’t be treating the U.S. FAIRLY”), EP let us all know the cancellation was “mutual.”  “Mutual” means both parties agree.  Let’s see, now.  EP says Mexico will pay for the wall.  President Nieto says “nothing doing.”  Therefore, they are in opposition, not mutuality.

After Kellyanne CONway, who has a complexion you could employ to make a leather handbag (for more on complexions, keep reading), urged television audiences to “buy Ivanka’s clothes” in direction violation of the Logan Law, she was “counseled.” This means the two Steves who are really running policy in the White House said, “Hey Kelleyanne, don’t be stupid anymore, okay?”  The irony here is the “free commercial” Kellyanne boasted she was broadcasting was seen on Faux News.  Most of the people watching that Alternative Facts Channel probably can’t afford the ridiculous prices Ivanka’s company charges for her line, anyway.  “Protecting the country” is what the Evil Pumpkin tells himself when he tweets trash at Nordstrom’s for dumping his darling daughter’s rags.  Nordstrom said they aren’t selling well.  Gee, I wonder why, DUHnald?

Our national media is doing what it can to keep up with all the “alternative facts” flowing out of the White House, but we shouldn’t trust any news outlet, because EP says every last one of them is, “ugly, both inside and out. Liberal clowns.  News stories are fictional garbage.  Sad and pathetic.  Zero credibility.  Dopey.  Total mess.  Dummy political pundit(s).  Lowest IQ on television.  Constant phony reporting.  Total losers with bad complexions.”  (See? That was my inspiration for acknowledging Leather Face has moved into 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue).

His take on President Obama? “Doesn’t know what he’s doing.  So fawning and desperate.  Wants to change the name of the White House because it’s discriminating.  Complete and total disaster.”  Apparently, the DUHnald doesn’t understand redundancy anymore that he understands veracity. “Trust but verify” is no longer applicable.  Verity in this country is dead. Twenty bucks says you literally do not know the meaning of the “v” word, EP.  Come on, bet me.  You can afford it.  If not, just borrow an Andrew Jackson from Putin. Speaking of, NotMyPresident and Steve Bannon have said they want to make this administration “great, like Andrew Jackson’s.”  Right.  Jackson could be considered the first president who made mass murder an official policy.  (Trail of Tears, anyone?  Buehler?  Buehler?) Oh, and the EP’s final judgment on our much-missed former President Obama:  “How stupid is this guy?  Everything he touches turns to garbage.”

I’m guessing when EP looks in the mirror, he tweets what is there but assigns the stupidity and garbage mongering in his reflection to the last people in the world who deserve those labels.

Millions of us miss Jon Stewart. And yet, he is an “overrated asshole—total phony, a wiseguy with no talent—not smart, a dummy, and has a phony last name.”

May I remind you, DUHnald, you have a phony last name, too? Also you are a wiseguy with no talent or brains, but yes, indeed, you are overrated AND an asshole.

Global warming is “a hoax, con, stupid, fictional, mythical, bullshit created by and for the Chinese.”

That means science is a “hoax, con, stupid,” etc. etc.

EP is also the last word on a number of “worsts.” To wit:  President Obama “is the worst president in U.S. history and a racist who gives due process to terrorists but not our cops.”  Other “worsts” are:  Bill Clinton, the New York Times (“happy to hear how badly the nytimes is doing . . . seriously failing paper”), the Academy Awards, the Emmy Awards, the Super Bowl, U.S. Foreign Policy, NAFTA, Congressional Republicans, Megan Kelly, CNN, ABC, the BBC, Meet the Press, CNBC, the National Review, and the Washington Post.  Won’t be long before he adds Senator Elizabeth Warren to his worst list for daring to protest his immigration policy.  So terrible!  The WORST!  The repubs had to actually SHUT HER UP on the floor of the Senate!  She’s probably the worst moron loser in the history of American politics!!!  (See, I speak Trumplish as well as Klingon.)

Also, in case you haven’t heard, “autism is caused by vaccines, the crime rate is the worst in history, Obama is STILL not an American citizen, and” . . . oh, just fill in any absurdity that comes to mind. If EP hasn’t said it yet, he will.  He’s also judge and jury on himself, and the verdict is a doozy.  “My IQ is one of the highest, and you all know it.”  “I’m the least racist person there is.”  “I have brought millions of people into the Republican Party.”

His inauguration was the “biggest in American history,” and no wonder. In EP’s alternative universe, he is the only one (he said it) who can fix:

1. Illegal immigration
2. Infrastructure
3. ISIS
4. Jobs
5. Slow GDP
6. Tax laws
7. Terrorism
8. Veterans Affairs
9. Israel
10. National security

Tired of reading all this? Well, take a deep breath, because there’s more, and I’m only shoveling the top layer of our President’s cesspool of a mind.  His assessment of people who don’t kiss his ring?

1. “Highly overrated and crazy”
2. “A face made for radio”
3. “Really pathetic . . . doomed”
4. “Truly dumb as a rock”
5. “Disgusting fraud”
6. “Total joke”
7. “A joke . . . soon to be dead” (from four years ago; the person in question yet lives)
8. “Marble mouth and boring” (EP raves about Tom Brokaw)
9. “Irrelevant dope”
10. “Dummies, failing, really dishonest reporting”
11. “Failed writer . . . no success and little talent”
12. “Highly untalented . . . a real dummy . . . low IQ”
13. “Major sleaze and buffoon”
14. “Low class slob”
15. “Political moron”

And my favorite, aimed at Time Magazine that “lost all credibility when they didn’t include me in their Top 100.”

Just in case you are a dummy idiot low IQ loser fraud, and can’t remember any of EP’s television programs, he reminds us that all three of them had “the highest ratings in history and set all records.” Amazing news to Nielson records, which got their highest ratings assigned, obviously in error, to stuff like the Super Bowl, Roots, and the night Lucy Ricardo gave birth.

Our “so-called” President has blasted the federal judiciary hearing a case about his Muslim ban by calling one of the arbiters “that so-called judge.”

He has proclaimed, “Our country is a laughingstock that is going to hell.” Gotta agree with you there, Donald.  It all began the day you were elected.

We are now in the hands of a benighted enclave of yahoos surrounding the EP. Steve Bannon, Jared Kushner, Ivanka Trump Kushner, Steve Mnuchin, Jeff Sessions, Betsy DeVoss and last but never least, Kellyanne CONway.  ‘Nuff said.

Did you know that someone has bought alternativefacts.com? When you click on it, you get “This page is temporarily unavailable.”  Just like justice, mercy, generosity, peace, faith, hope, and charity.  I hope these pillars of our democracy are only “temporarily” unavailable.

I should now like to quote a few words from another country’s leader who addressed his people during a time of mortal crisis. Feel free to compare his words to those listed above. You may apply the following to 21^st century America, although the words were spoken about 20^th century Britain.

“We have before us an ordeal of the most grievous kind. We have before us many, many months of struggling and suffering.”

“I have nothing to offer but blood, toil, tears, and sweat. We shall not flag or fail . . . we shall fight on the seas and oceans . . . we shall defend our [rights] whatever the cost may be.  We shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and on the streets, we shall fight in the hills, we shall never surrender.  We shall prove ourselves able . . . to outlive the menace of tyranny, if necessary for years.  You ask, what is our policy?  I can say:  it is . . . to wage war against a monstrous tyranny.  That is our policy.  You ask, what is our aim?  I can answer in one word:  it is victory, victory at all costs, victory in spite of terror, victory however long and hard the road may be; for without victory, there is no survival.”

Sir Winston Churchill

His words could be ours, were we so articulate. We need not fight with tanks and bombs, but with determination that the policies of our current administration shall not stand.  We have to fight.  If we don’t, our country will become a laughingstock and on our way to hell.  Speaking of, that reminds me of another great writer, millennia before Sir Winston.

“For is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world and lose his own soul? For the Son of Man shall reward every man according to his works.”

Matthew 16:26-27

Ladies and Gentlemen, our long national nightmare has begun.

Look out, Donnie. Your “rewards” are collecting in Hell, even as we speak

NINE DAYS TO A NIGHTMARE, AND A GATHERING OF GHOSTS

A writer named N. Ziehl recently examined the hot likelihood that the President-Elect suffers from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, and N. Ziehl is right on the money, I’m telling you.  Here’s the diagnosis from one who has had a great deal of experience with the disorder and has gracefully and persuasively applied that knowledge to the Evil Pumpkin.  Pay special attention to number 6.

“I want to talk a little about narcissistic personality disorder. I’ve unfortunately had a great deal of experience with it, and I’m feeling badly for those of you who are trying to grapple with it for the first time because of our president-elect, who almost certainly suffers from it or a similar disorder. If I am correct, it has some very particular implications for the office. Here are a few things to keep in mind:

1) It’s not curable and it’s barely treatable. He is who he is. There is no getting better, or learning, or adapting. He’s not going to “rise to the occasion” for more than maybe a couple hours. So just put that out of your mind.

2) He will say whatever feels most comfortable or good to him at any given time. He will lie a lot, and say totally different things to different people. Stop being surprised by this. While it’s important to pretend “good faith” and remind him of promises, as Bernie Sanders and others are doing, that’s for his supporters, so ‘they’ can see the inconsistency as it comes. He won’t care. So if you’re trying to reconcile or analyze his words, don’t. It’s 100% not worth your time. Only pay attention to and address his actions.

3) You can influence him by making him feel good. There are already people like Bannon who appear ready to use him for their own ends. The GOP is excited to try. Watch them, not him. President Obama, in his wisdom, may be treating him well in hopes of influencing him and averting the worst. If he gets enough accolades for better behavior, he might continue to try it. But don’t count on it.

4) Entitlement is a key aspect of the disorder. As we are already seeing, he will likely not observe traditional boundaries of the office. He has already stated that rules don’t apply to him. This particular attribute has huge implications for the presidency and it will be important for everyone who can to hold him to the same standards as previous presidents.

5) We should expect that he only cares about himself and those he views as extensions of himself, like his children. (People with NPD often can’t understand others as fully human or distinct.) He desires accumulation of wealth and power because it fills a hole. (Melania is probably an acquired item, not an extension.) He will have no qualms at all about stealing everything he can from the country, and he’ll be happy to help others do so, if they make him feel good. He won’t view it as stealing but rather as something he’s entitled to do. This is likely the only thing he will intentionally accomplish.

6) It’s very, very confusing for non-disordered people to experience a disordered person with NPD. While often intelligent, charismatic and charming, they do not reliably observe social conventions or demonstrate basic human empathy. It’s very common for non-disordered people to lower their own expectations and try to normalize the behavior. DO NOT DO THIS AND DO NOT ALLOW OTHERS, ESPECIALLY THE MEDIA, TO DO THIS. If you start to feel foggy or unclear about this, step away until you recalibrate.

7) People with NPD often recruit helpers, referred to in the literature as “enablers” when they allow or cover for bad behavior and “flying monkeys” when they perpetrate bad behavior on behalf of the narcissist. Although it’s easiest to prey on malicious people, good and vulnerable people can be unwittingly recruited. It will be important to support good people around him if and when they attempt to stay clear or break away.

8) People with NPD often foster competition for sport in people they control. Expect lots of chaos, firings and recriminations. He will probably behave worst toward those closest to him, but that doesn’t mean (obviously) that his actions won’t have consequences for the rest of us. He will punish enemies. He may start out, as he has with the NYT, with a confusing combination of punishing/rewarding, which is a classic abuse tactic for control. If you see your media cooperating or facilitating this behavior for rewards, call them on it.

9) Gaslighting — where someone tries to convince you that the reality you’ve experienced isn’t true — is real and torturous. He will gaslight, his followers will gaslight. Many of our politicians and media figures already gaslight, so it will be hard to distinguish his amplified version from what has already been normalized. Learn the signs and find ways to stay focused on what you know to be true. Note: it is typically not helpful to argue with people who are attempting to gaslight. You will only confuse yourself. Just walk away.

10) Whenever possible, do not focus on the narcissist or give him attention. Unfortunately we can’t and shouldn’t ignore the president, but don’t circulate his tweets or laugh at him — you are enabling him and getting his word out. (I’ve done this, of course, we all have… just try to be aware.) Pay attention to your own emotions: do you sort of enjoy his clowning? do you enjoy the outrage? is this kind of fun and dramatic, in a sick way? You are adding to his energy. Focus on what you can change and how you can resist, where you are. We are all called to be leaders now, in the absence of leadership.”

There is nothing to add to this; it is an example of perfect writing and analysis, and it is no surprise that the original, posted on Facebook, went viral. I salute you, N. Ziehl.

A little story of my ongoing battle with the physical world is in order now. There is a connection to the forgoing report.  Trust me.

A few weeks back, I went to extract my favorite fountain pen from my bag, and it was not there. For a writer, this kind of thing can cause anxiety of the first order, but I tried to calm myself with reason. (I do not suffer from NPD, so I thought I had a decent chance to succeed).  Thinking back, I remembered that the night before, my bag had slid from its perch on the passenger side of my Manly-Man SUV and tumped upside down on the floor.  I pulled over, collected all the baggage content, restored it to its rightful place, and drove on.

“Ah,” thought I as I stared at the empty pen slot in my bag, “the pen is either still on the floor, or under the seat.  Check the car the first chance you get.”

So I did. No pen.  When I arrived home, I revisited the Bermuda Triangle of my GMC Manly-Man etc, with a flashlight.  Moved the seat back as far as it would go, flashlighted again.  Still no pen.  With my usual linguistic elegance, I said to my car, “Oh, crap.”

What next? Surrender in stalking my pen was out of the question.  Back in the house, I turned my bag upside down and emptied it.  And I mean emptied it.  Sorted through all the detritus, and, finding no favorite pen, reloaded the bag.

My sleep was intermittent. I can’t live without that pen.  Really.  Death from penlessness would be on the certificate proclaiming me gone from this world.  All right, then.  Wait another day.  Back to the car with the flashlight.  Back to clearing my desk at work.  Another round of emptying the bag at home and then reloading.  Nothing.  At that point, I realized my only hope for peace was to replace the pen.  So online I went, shopping.  The place from which I had originally purchased the pen no longer carried it.  I trolled several high-end pen stores.  Nothing even nearer than a distant relative. Finally, I found a joint that had something close (but no cigar, as we say in the South), so I ordered it and prayed it would fit my hand as naturally as my poor lost writing instrument had.

Mind you, I own many pens. I collect them.  It was hardly the case that I didn’t have other choices with which to write; it’s just that they weren’t the same, you see.  I sighed heavily, and waited for the replacement.

In about a week, it arrived. I put it away, because I was still in mourning, and I didn’t have the heart to fill it with my favorite ink and begin putting it to work.  My sorrow needed more time to fade away.  Three days later, another, identical pen from the same company arrived.  My account was not charged.  Whoa.  Things are getting spooky around here.

A few days after the twin pen’s arrival, I put down my bag at work in its usual place, and as I reached for a substitute from its usual place, I was struck by what I thought was an hallucination. There at the opposite corner, tucked in next to my wallet, was my pen!  THE pen!  But where had it come from?

I’m haunted. That’s all I can suppose.  I can live with pen-filching haints, however, because the pen I must have to steer my writing to success reappeared without explanation just when I thought I was going to have be guided by a second-rate substitute which wasn’t what I wanted at all.

If only my pen had been Hillary Clinton.