Let’s look at this latest snafu from the Entitled One. #Hillary has made the same mistake that others have made anent #Trump’s bankruptcies. He never went bankrupt, his companies did. In Atlantic City! Caesars, The Atlantic Club, Showboat, Revel – even Atlantic City all went under. Just to name a few. She now must realize that because she brings these subjects up, Trump is forced to bring up #Whitewater, which was a monumental collapse with criminal implications. Does Mrs. Clinton have any idea what she’s doing and the can of worms she’s opening? But she’s nothing to fear. The in-the-bag and bought-off mainstream media will report nothing of this and will instead make the mistake that Trump’s tax returns indicate net worth and yet ignore Hillary’s speeches and their subject matter.
It’s time to retire the mensroom attendant. Let me say unequivocally that the archaic and hoary practice of men’s room attendants must stop anon and immediately. I don’t know what benefit this serves, how it connotes or suggests panache and posh. It’s some poor soul, relegated to the head, who dutifully turns the facet on for you and stands sadly with a paper towel as you do a quick once over of his assortment and display bad mints, lousy after shave and (my favorite) deodorant. Am I supposed to take my shirt off or directly apply the aerosol through my chemise? And I’m supposed to cough up a couple of bucks each time I micturate or for the evening or can I get an evening pass? And, please, why am I paying him to turn on the faucet again? Enough. Basta!
An evening overheard. My wife and I were seated for dinner last eve next to a family who was attempting to discuss “conspiracy theories” anent 9/11. My ears perked, my interest piqued and my impeccable hearing was radar-locked and loaded, homing in, catching every phoneme and morpheme uttered. As you know, New York restaurants will often dump you on top of contiguous dining mates so I was front row to a celebration of sheer lunacy that was about to commence. The young man, the quintessential dweeb and twerp (dwerp or tweeb, perhaps), apparently was accompanied by his gal and her parents. First, the culinary Steichen had to memorialize everyone’s plated order with an obnoxious and obtrusive photo snap. Next, he had that 20-something Brooklyn hipster wannabe monotonal drone, minus inflection and intonation and emotion and feeling and any semblance of humanity. What he proceeded to describe, ostensibly to impress the parents of the lass whose knickers he cared to continue invading, was a pageant of misstatement, revisionist history, sheer and unadulterated ignorance and the most tenuous of synthetic reasoning and critical thinking I’ve even had the displeasure of experiencing. My wife was trying to calm me but I was quite under control. But the moral of the story is that (a) this waste of flesh is and will always be a Boeotian, (b) America’s future is doomed if mooncalves like this are stewarding the helm of public perception and (c) America simply and organically has no desire to know the truth about the day it swears it will never forget but will clutch with all its might to the lulling and saccharine official story.