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.
Young people are always asking me if I ever saw the Beatles, or the Doors, or the Glenn Miller orchestra. And whether calculators had been invented by the time I was in grade school. What about toilet paper?
Soon I’m rubbing my temples, irritated as hell. I inform them that I was born in “the sixties,” which means Glenn Miller had been dead some 20 years and Jim Morrison was already three-quarters of the way through his short life, which would be over before I was 8. Not to mention that toilet paper had been clogging up toilets for centuries prior to that.
And believe me, no one saw The Beatles.
A more apt question is “Did you ever see Rush?” In fact, I didn’t. And no, I don’t have a good excuse. Among my earliest LP record purchases, probably via the ubiquitously advertised “Columbia House 11 LPs for a Penny” deal, was the Rush album 2112, which I quickly wore out, playing songs from it like Passage to Bangkok over and over while I pretended to keep up with the drumming of Neal Peart.
Suddenly it was 2020 and Neal Peart was no longer with us, as they say, and my chance to see these rockers and all their odd Canadianisms had vanished like moose into the woods of Ontario.
So heap your derision on me, for this was indeed among the great failures of my rock life.