Trump is shot, tackled by SS agents, yet then stands, defiant, with fist high, and 52 hours later, walks into the Republican Convention to thunderous applause. Is there anything that can stop this man, who loves his country? Does he get your vote?
10.06.2025 02:31
(We all also know in her natural setting she would have said “fucked” rather than “messed,” and it took an effort, so props from her party for the greater good. When you're right you’re right, church lady, despite the grand scheme being so very wrong.
Oh, for the love of money. The only part of this breast-beating exhortation that remotely wants to ask anything is at the end, and it has a lot of nerve wanting to ask something that is none of its business.
Anyway look. I don’t judge. But partying is hard work, this is the job you signed up for and you’re out of shape. A lot of water has flown under the bridge since you and your pledge sisters tried to follow the Beach Boys. Then you got your MRS. degree, the kids kept right on coming (even though you couldn’t anymore, sigh), and staying at home in Upper Inertia, Wisconsin watching HSN kept you busy till you got T-boned by the divorce. But look at you now! Unsinkable! With Martha, Oprah and Dr. Phil's wife Robin (who has Dorian Grayish genes in her blood like a fine wine) in your corner, and MTG effortlessly wrangling your spit bucket, you got back in there, didn’t you? Sure you did. That’s the one part of your legacy no Christian can ever deny. You always got up off your knees and went back in there, once more into the breach, showed that old hoss who was boss, and damn straight you got your Fitbit steps in. Like you say, GOOGLE ME, right? LOL
Why does my vagina and around my butthole itch? I don't have weird discharge and I'm still a virgin.
Now you’re here though, in Isentard, and it’s exponentially scarieer than any quantum of Pilates and keto-friendky could have primed you for. Yes, I agree, one has to experience it first-hand to really get God’s plan for us, like the Super Bowl or Dollywood. That Airbnb you’re in would create a head rush tsunaminous enough to level most people even in off-season. Your room with a view gives on the Clydesdales frolicking! You are a stranger in a strange land. As Valentine Michael Smith said, you are an egg. It’s a lot. So don’t feel bad about the crying jags and the extra Xanax. That’s what it’s there for. You learned that back in menopause. Everybody here is high on something and it’s not just the prospect of seeing the Red Messiah with the Bandaid as from a great distance. It’s the whole altered sensorium of history-making. You’re not the only one who will find herself overcome in the presence of politics’ most successful professional hedonists. Have a good time for all the other Americans counting on you. And if I haven’t said it yet, There there now, hush, you will be all right.
My good woman, pretend you are Mother Teresa or Tammy Faye or Tammy Wynette. Pick a Tammy. Or a Wynona. Set an example. Be kind. Rewind your mind a tad. Ease up. Pause before you volunteer to represent and blurt these outrageous oracular spoilers which suggest the beleaguered security profession was asleep at the wheel and you got ahold of some sketchy entrails from Winn-Dixie. Or maybe Aldi up there. Maybe somebody slipped them to you in krafy paper with a note and asked for a reading, what with that being your side hustle back home anyway and you could not refuse.
(Where “he/his” are the candidate’s pronouns and “they” means Democrats instead of the shooter in a universe unburdened by logical thinking. In other words, Trump getting knicked in the ear was the best thing that could ever have happened to the GOP and, if experts taking the pulse of the nation are to be believed, the most factually underwhelming yet perversely galvanizing mosquito blip to bang futilely at America’s irritable zeitgeist since the outing of red dye No. 12, followed closely by the Secretariat scandal.
Anyway so yeah. If you’re her. I gather you’re in town for Part 2 of the nationally televised festivities that started Saturday and you done had you some fun last night. You go, girl! You deserve to get out of the house once in awhile. Kick your heels up at that boozy book club (wink wink), Dr. Botox hen party or other halfway decent dog and pony show.
So turn in early tonight and let sleep knit up the ravel’d sleeve of care. I can see how hard you care, and I care about you too, my wackjob sister. Good night for now and your country thanks you in advance, Madam, for your service.
Oh no she didn’t.
Rents fall in most U.S. metros since 2023 as demand struggles to keep up with supply - Seeking Alpha
ADDENDUM: To the crank OP who posted this question, whose comment to me has been deleted by me after it was collapsed by Quora, NOT IF I SEE YOU FIRST.
I have been saying for months that Moderation needs to add a reporting criterion any idiot can understand: “Is not a question.” If it matters, this brown-nosed Come-to-Jesus moment would be better served by a platform where people actually give a flying. That’s all you’ll get in the way of an answer from me, unless “In a pig’s eye” counts.
Now fix your lipstick. Straighten that big old hat. Pace yourself. You'll need to be fresh tomorrow if you want to see the elephants. They fly them in. I swear! You can’t miss it! They’re not fu¢king around, pardon my Fren¢h, but they came to win and they’ve got the war chest, right? Attagirl. If you’ve got it, rub people’s noses in it. Don't worry. You picked the right side. And a lot of these men aren’t just here for the politics, if you know what I mean.
Meanwhile back in my brain: There’s a kind of hush all over the world tonight. All over the world. The sound of smiles freezing on people's faces.
But you’re being rude, honey. Such hypomanic antics are hard to take for people who have not yet abandoned the time-space continuum, let go the notion of reality or the circadian rhythms that help keep the dull roar of the low spark, backbeat and downside of human nature at bay, and in short, outbursts like yours piss off the sane. Comparatively reasonable pilgrims who are here to work are already underrepresented among your sundry folke now. You learned that by example, watching Congress taking its month-long smoke breaks, so not all your fault, but still. The few, the proud, the ones among you who can stomach the process un-doped for the sake of their constituents are constitutionally susceptible to being accosted by media, hustled from elbow to elbow like bouncers shift deaf drunks and then, when they least can stand it, ragged on and their work undone by fools claiming to be on their same side.
You can hear a pin drop.
Do women wear undies under leggings?
It sounds like your usual morning Adderall is on board but late arriving, and is chasing the tail of last night’s Molly. Still seeing a trail or two, amirite? Well, slap on a maxipad and push Gatorade, seriously. That’s what the anchorwomen do. Didn't we talk in the stairwell last night, which you mistook for a washroom, where you were puking your guts out and blindly scrabbling around searching your body for your undies? Yes, if it was you, I vaguely remember holding your hair back and making sure you didn’t hurl on your phone. OMG, if you had ruined those selfies. I know I would never have forgiven myself. Once in a lifetime photo opp. Worth a dozen long lens pix of the wall around Mar-a-lago.
But let’s talk about you. Unless I'm mistaken, you’re the spitting image of a lady who was interviewed on TV last night milking her 15 seconds of fame, whose astute yet third-grade-accessible eloquence so curdled my core that I grabbed the first thing handy, a sleeping cat’s belly, and I wrote it down verbatim: “Oh, he’s already won because of the attempt on his life. They just messed up.”