The 2020 Presidential Potato Sack Race, my new name for it since, it does have a country fair feel to it, (don’t you think?) has brought my cynicism to new heights.
Think Gulliver in a stretch class.
I’ll start with Bernie who seems like a really nice guy who might own a hardware store in Missouri, very Trumanesque, except, Harry had more chutzpa under those hats he sold.
It’s like Bernie’s running in Hooterville rereading The Charge of the Light Brigade, and we know what happened to them.
…into the valley of death rode the six hundred.
Madam Warren, who’s anger could have lit U.S. Grant’s cigar, scares the shit out of me. As for Amy, the most that I can say is, she’s got a real cute haircut.
I know, I’m supposed to be in favor of women, but I’m not inspired by either of them. Now if only Anne Lamott would run, than I’d toss my thong in the ring.
And dear Mr. Biden, whom I love, needs six months at Hilton Head in a nice Lacoste shirt since, the poor man looks so beat and bereft still mourning his son Beau, that frankly, knowing all too much about loss, breaks my heart.
So we are left with the two big swinging New York dicks, one much more one than the other, taking cheap shots knowing they’re the only ones he can get away with.
Mike Bloomberg is still my only hope, don’t know about yours.
If Donald Trump gets reelected, the added damage that he’ll do to the country will be unprecedented. Rather than Hail to the Chief, we’ll be humming Taps.
It scares the hell out of me even more than Elizabeth Warren in Chanel taking her oath of office.
I have no choice but to turn to the Great Creator who hopefully in the 11th hour will ride in like the cavalry.
I'm just a girl who likes to write slightly on slant. I've had a career in fashion, dabbled in film and to be honest, I don't like talking about myself. Now my posts are another matter so I will let them speak for themselves.
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