As I write this, Joe Biden is about to finally overtake Donald Trump in Georgia, and it looks like Pennsylvania isn’t far behind.
Let me say, I know how frustrating it can be to be out in front for a key leg in a monumentally important race and at the last second get overtaken by your arch enemy, who is in his mid-70s and stutters. I’m not saying I know this firsthand. The truth is, when I was going around the final turn back in “my day,” I was usually trailing the stuttering septuagenarian. Still, I have a long history of being able to empathize with people I loathe, and I can understand how much it must hurt to lose to someone you have so brutally and unfairly mocked, like a schoolyard bully, in front of huge crowds.
The good news is that the president seems to be taking the inexorable creep toward his loss of power extraordinarily well. As far as I know he hasn’t yet shot anyone on Fifth Avenue or set Texas oil fields aflame. The very worst he’s done is to fire a massive, hateful salvo against our most sacred democratic institution – the right of Americans to have their votes counted.
I totally get it. He must be worried about what’s next. Is he going to be just thrown out on the street? Where will his next meal come from? Who is going to press his size 54 underpants?
Look, it’s going to fine. We’re Americans. We’re resilient. When we lose an election we don’t just sit there and mope. We file lawsuits and call press conferences to delegitimize the process in an effort to keep the Sherriff from coming to our front door and handing over an eviction notice, which would require us to have to pack up and get our assess the hell out of the whitest residence in the United States.
It’s all going to be fine, my friends. I think.
Like you, I’m really curious about what happens with Whitehouse furniture and accessories when there is a change in presidents. Not counting my chickens before they hatch, heh heh, but someone better be thinking about this. I don’t want the transfer of power to be held up thanks to a lack of foresight on packing up the former – ack!, excuse me, current – “President.”
"Sorry, the family isn't fully packed up yet."
Too effing bad. You're out.
Also, what’s swapped out and what isn’t? I imagine Joe and Jill Biden would be expected to eat off the same plates, insert the same forks into their mouths, and nestle their buttocks into the same dining room upholstery imprints that Donald and Melania Trump have been avialing themselves of until the day of the inauguration. I mean, we’re not getting new furniture every time there is a change of presidents, are we?
On the other hand, there's bound to be leftover coronavirus-goo on the dining room chairs. If I were offered a free weekend vacation in the Whitehouse just after the Trumps departed, to be honest I’d pass. Sorry, but not worth it!
If there is a change in presidents (please, please) I’d recommend that the Bidens discard the linens. That’s just me from my little perch here in the layperson peanut gallery. I certainly don’t speak for Anthony Fauci, but I’ll bet “The Fouch” would endorse that plan, plus recommend a week or so of time between first families in order to properly fumigate the place. If every surface has to be wiped down, every sheet and towel disinfected, and every mattress inspected for party stains, it’s going to take time.
What about the toilet paper? Is Jill Biden supposed to draw off the same roll of TP that Donald Trump was using earlier that same day? Did anyone bother to take off the last few sheets and create a triangular fold, like they do in the very high-class establishments I routinely stay in?
And what about the second wave of toilet paper deficit? And the “Toilet Paper War”? Yeah, sounds comical, but there are a lot of guns out there, and I expect a war over toilet paper if this pandemic gets much worse.
Lots to consider.
Were it not for the impossibility of it, or maybe my lack of entrepreneurship, by now I’d have invented a beer machine. I don’t mean a machine that requires you to steep grains and boil wort and add hops at specific times and take gravity readings, but a truly magical machine into which you add water and maybe a few dry ingredients, set it, and forget it. Two weeks later, you’ve got an effervescent concoction on tap that makes friends and family euphoric.
I needn’t tell you, a voter (hopefully) and maybe even a beer drinker (surely), how important both beer and voting are to our democracy. Voting is the ultimate expression of our citizenship rights; beer soothes the burn when the dink the opposing party has inexplicably nominated somehow bests your sensible candidate.
I’ll be honest and say that I’ve been steeling myself against another improbable victory by President Conspiracy Theory by enjoying a beer every now and again. I’m also planning to tap an ale or two post-vote as a celebratory beverage, or maybe to drown my sorrows.
Good ol’ beer. It’s that versatile.
I would like to say, in the nicest and humblest terms possible, that I am probably the best thing that’s ever happened to you.
I’m sorry, let me clarify: I’m not “probably” the best thing that’s ever happened to you. I am the best thing. And I say that with compleat and utter hummility. With no spelling errers.
Think about it. Who’s been better to you than me? Your wife? To hell with her! And to hell with your kids. You should swap them for Greenland! They are a compleat joque. Their not even in skool. And they where masks, which is unnecessarry.
I want to be clear that I say all of this in the nicest and most respectful way possible because, let's face it, I'm incredibly humble.