As droll trolls, humorists, satirists, and other denizens of the deep have increased the din of mockery against the fourth estate and the other three estates it tends to color as red, white, and blue, it appears that my lifelong dream of bringing on the bomb is still holds promise as a viable alternative to political discourse in solving the problems that ordinary assholes are apparently incapable of solving themslves.
Democrats and their commie sympathizers showed up in Worsthanshit, DC this weekend in alarming numbers to say that they're bored as hell and really need some new programming, forcing the liberal media to pool its fingers and toes to determine whether the bored folks outnumbers the passionate Beckerwoods who propped their lawn chairs on the national mall a month ago to celebrate the sacred memory of Howard Beale and the actor who played him by affirming that they were annoyed by golly and averse to up putting with it anymore.
My local paper has responded to the crisis of conscience this national of miserable fucks (NOMF™) continues to blunder through by removing its Sunday TV supplement and asking its non-existent subscribers to subscribe to its own print version of online material that is easier to obtain to begin with.
I can't remember when I abandoned all hope and opened the door anyway, but I'm glad I survived adolescence and early adulthood in the fifties and sixties, before the mindless police and family value enforcement took over the media exchanges and forced ordinary people to pursue virtual reality as an alternative to alternate reality.
Did I ever tell you about the time I shared some hash, homebrew, and moonshine with Osama bin Oppenheimer? If not, leave a comment to remind me to recall how easy it is to do what you need to make you feel better.