A Week that Elevated Meaningless Grandstanding to an Avant Garde Form of Surrealist Art
The week before this past week, more of the same. ICYMI and want to catch up on theater — plus a recommendation/introduction to a group blog I think you will enjoy reading and should be following.
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This week was a banner one in Trumpian surrealism, as the big, wet president vowed that even if all the Fake Ass Friends betray him, Kim Jong Un while always open his ever-loving arms. And a vainglorious “mole” in the White House gave the chattering classes the injection of top-grade Saigon Blonde heroin that they have been jitterily jonesing for for months.
Meanwhile, an arch-Catholic fascist pat of Land-o-Lakes butter is cruising on his way to the Supreme Court, continuing his ceaseless quest to make transvaginal ultrasounds a human right. Mr. Kavanaugh was not completely undeterred, though. No, no one could stop Our Fair Haired Boy from Newark, NJ, Cory Booker, from doing his A Few Good Men bit, or Kindergarten Cop, or whatever.
You’ll like me when I’m mad
Strange times indeed. Aretha Franklin, Burt Reynolds, and the Village Voice are gone. The labor movement teeters on the edge…
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