So last week, I try to throw Trump a bit of a fair and balanced bone, and take his side on the relatively minor dispute involving the scheduling of his debates with Hillary opposite NFL games. So what does the sumbitch do? He gets up there in North Carolina the very next day and ever not so subtly hints that one of his big hairy gun nut mad dogs might just know how to deal with the situation, if you know what I mean, wink-wink and ferfuxsake are you kidding me? What a statesman.
And this tax thing isn’t going well for El Payaso. The more he refuses to come clean and just give us the damn returns, the more folks who were amused by his blustery schtick in February are unamused in August. He knew a year ago the tax return issue would eventually surface, that he would be expected routinely, as every presidential candidate has done since Nixon, to make available his tax returns for our consumption. The fact that Donaldo won’t come clean tells us one thing—he’s got a bomb in those returns. Maybe a bunch of bombs. Ho. You ready for a tsunami of glorious schaudenfreude this autumn, the kind of raging schaudenfreude that will lead directly to the popping of the veins in Sean Hannity’s forehead? I am. Couldn’t happen to a nicer bunch of muddled chowderhead obstructionist dipsticks.
But—Michael Moore is spot on when he warns us Dems not to get complacent. This thing ain’t over! And yes, while I’ve been hoping Hillary might use some of her television budget to remind us of some positive things that have happened on Democratic watch the last eight years, I have to admit, her ad showing Letterman talking to Trump about his shirts and ties being made in China and Bangladesh is perfect. Totally on target ballstomp of a spot, and MAGA my ass!
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My earlier snarky comments about the Rio Olympics notwithstanding, I have to admit that, despite the ongoing adulteration of the Olympic experience with all the skeet shooting, windsurfing—watch out for that sofa!—and synchronized salsa preparation, this past Aug. 14 was pretty doggone fantastic sports spectacle. I mean, with South African Wayde Van Niekerk’s dazzling world record dash in the men’s 400 meter final, Simone Biles’ outrageous vaults that claimed the first-ever gold for a Yankee female in this event, and the electrifying Usain Bolt winning his unprecedented third 100 meter gold medal, that was some really good stuff. (And at one point, I began to wonder how ex-brothel kingpin Joe Conforte, who fled to Rio 25 years ago, is enjoying the games.)