My funny quarantine, Sweet lonely quarantine, Making me smile with each swipe
Of your alcohol-drenched wipe, Your actions winning my heart
As we both do our part,
You, my neurotic shut-in,
Me, your store-running champion.
How quickly to the store I can dart,
Face masked in Snoopy pajama art
Hands covered in prostate-probing gloves,
Braving germs, crowds and biblical floods
Your eyes frozen on the TV
Captive to the scary shit on MSNBC
But don’t change the channel for me Fox News frankly scares me
As they rewrite the news,
But never for me. Oh, how my heart starts to sway
With you a full six feet away, Who cares what Trump has to say
After our chance to beat the virus
Was frittered away?
Stay, Dr. Fauci, please stay!
And please make the world go away. Each day is quarantine day,
Each day is quarantine day.
My apologies to anyone who might be offended about my taking a humorous look at a situation that is anything but funny. We are all obviously in the same boat, and my mental survival strategy requires me to look for the irony and humor in even the worst of calamities. Again, my apologies!
I resent that a well-meaning progressive like myself is faced with the exact same dilemma the Democratic National Committee (DNC) put me through four years ago.
The DNC and its donors are so frightened of Bernie—either because of his policies or his perceived weakness as a national candidate—they are clumsily tipping the scales in Biden’s favor, as they did with You-Know-Who four years ago. Not content to ensure Trump’s victory last time out, they are back again. This time with a candidate who barely inspires mild enthusiasm. A candidate so diminished by age or confusion he couldn’t be trusted to memorize a takeout lunch order.
Have they not seen how Bernie attracts 10,000-, 30,000- and 50,000-person crowds, larger even than Trump’s, and every bit as enthusiastic?
Have they not seen…! Who am I kidding? These are the guys who failed to see Hillary‘s weaknesses last go-around, even as her campaign repeatedly struggled to fill high school gyms.
Okay, this is where I admit to having no evidence of vote-rigging or party-insider chicanery. My evidence—except for exit poll discrepancies—comes from my eyes and especially my nose; a nose that tells me something stinks about the way Joe Biden almost instantly went from slow-poking Uncle Joe to the political equivalent of Tom Cruise on a mission. Suddenly, an overnight front-runner and almost the last man standing after the rest of the crowd packed up and left town.
And all of them, except for Elizabeth Warren, throwing their support behind a man they hardly took seriously from the start. Perhaps the man they’re now convinced has been ‘chosen’ to win the Democratic nomination.
Just like Hillary ‘won’ it back in 2016.
There’s only one candidate running for the presidency who inspires as much fan-madness and political hysteria as Donald Trump, and that candidate is Bernie Sanders.
The question now Is whether the DNC will see Bernie’s true potential or else recklessly torpedo his campaign for a second time! As they defiantly stated in court, the DNC is a private corporation and therefore not required to conduct an honest nomination process.
Last time, I had no choice but to vote for Jill Stein. By their cheating, Hillary and the Hillary-controlled DNC had forfeited my vote. This time I suppose I’ll vote for Biden, cheater or not, if he’s the only choice the DNC will allow me. Yes, Trump is that bad!
To party insiders and major funders, Bernie may not be the fave candidate, but I would argue he’s the only candidate still standing who has a decent shot at knocking Trump out of the White House. Even though Bernie’s been painted a socialist/communist and would, no doubt, have a challenging job selling himself to a skeptical American public.
But hey, DNC, give the guy a chance! Let’s see what happens if, in the next few months, the final phases of the Democratic nomination are left to the voters themselves. How’s that for an idea?
But knowing you, as I do, I’m certain you would prefer to leave the dance with Uncle Joe on your arm.
Okay. Only, please stop pretending he was our choice.
For more information about the DNC’s possible 2020 election misdeeds:
Some of you might regard that as a handicap, but at the time I assumed everyone was born fully grown in a corporate test kitchen. In fact, I still think of it as an advantage; like being born with a silver spoon in my hand.
My parents were industrious and successful advertising icons themselves. Mom was the housewife on the Crispy Cornpads cereal boxes, Dad the cartoon character in the Gillette Safety Razor commercials who always stroked his chin and declared, “Feels smoother, too!”
My parents were proud of me from the start and encouraged me to think of myself as more than a mere advertising symbol. They knew from their own experience how difficult life could be for someone who never had a childhood, an adolescence or even an early adulthood. They arranged for me to play with other celebrities like myself. Thus, I led a very active social life, and still fondly recall those days when the Gerber Baby, the Morton Salt Girl (what a klutz!), the Ivory Snow Mother and myself would stay up till all hours of the night exchanging recipes and baby care advice.
It’s easy to judge one’s parents by today’s standards, but in truth it was a far different world back then. So, it’s not surprising that my parents wouldn’t allow me to play with Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben, or that my father threatened to lock me up in the kitchen if I so much as sent an idle glance in the direction of the Marlboro Man.
Ah, the Marlboro Man! There was a fellow to watch, girls! A hard-smoking, ill-educated callous-handed macho man who could turn the head of any woman who spent most of her days on the front sides of cake mix boxes. But like most things in life, the dream was far more interesting than the reality. Later on, when I had the chance to date Mr. Marlboro Icon Himself, I found him to be dull, insipid and totally lost without his horse or a mirror in which to watch himself.. Not only that, there was an aura of stale smoke always hovering around him and fouling his breath. It was all you could do to let your nostrils open for even the smallest intake of smelly cigarette-reeking air.
I laugh now to think of my father’s Victorian attitudes, but having worked in men’s magazines his entire career, he had seen too many unsuspecting females whose advertising careers were tainted or ruined by associating with the wrong type of commercial characters. So, except for a brief platonic relationship with that boy who got sand kicked in his face in the Charles Atlas comic book ads, I was never allowed to go out on dates until the start of the second World War.
The War Years, with their food shortages and rationing, were lonely years for me, and I recall staring down long empty supermarket aisles waiting for a chance to wave at the Gorton’s Fisherman or Tony The Tiger as they went by. By then, I had developed a line of hot breakfast cereals that put me on the shelf next to the one real love of my life.
Modesty forbids me to reveal the intimate details of my relationship with the Quaker Oats Quaker—or ‘Quaky’ as we used to call him—but you’ll most likely remember from the fan magazines that we were seen at all the “in” places, dancing till dawn, burying ourselves in confetti, drinking champagne from Buster Brown slippers.
Sad to say, it was an affair fated for an unhappy ending. Inevitably, gossip about our relationship reached into the corporate headquarters of both our companies, and rulings came down from both mountaintops forbidding fraternization between competing brands. Quaky went into brief seclusion while I was given the first of my “new looks” by my personal illustrator, a total revamp that not only changed my look but my entire personality as well.
To be honest, with my new personality I suddenly discovered new appetites rising up within me, so that stuffy old icons lie Quaky and the Ivory Snow Mother began to have about as much appeal as cold oatmeal. Shocking to say, I began seriously looking around for the kind of relationships my father always worried about.
And so, girls, I began to experiment with more exotic spices.
NEXT: “No Kitchen Could Hold Me,” Betty’s raw and honest look back at her “lost years,” as starkly seen in her torrid, love-hate relationship with the Pillsbury Doughboy.
1st M.: Didn’t you see it? The sudden change of script? The background scenery suddenly shifting from dark gray clouds and gloom to clear skies, all sunshiny bright, as the song goes?
2nd M.: Now that you mention it, I did notice something. A shift—very slight—Thought it might have been something I ate at lunch.
1st M.: Sorry, friend, it was a bit more profound than that. Did you notice the music we’re dancing to hasn’t changed, but the lyrics have…? I was dancing to the Amy Klobuchar Waltz, and you were tap dancing to…?
2nd M.: …the Peter Buttigieg two-step!
1st M.: Exactly! And now we’re both toe-tapping to …?
2nd M.:Oh my god, could that be…? Is that the Joe Biden Ragtime Quartet that we’re all dancing to?
1st M.:Playing “Canciones de Mi Padre?”
2nd M.: When did that happen?
1st M.: Could it be it was so quick that nobody noticed?
3rd M.: What about me (a gravelly-toned voice questions from behind)? Talk about sudden changes. I was dancing to the tune of a front runner, and now I’ve been put in my place.
2nd M.: (chuckling) Yeah, your second place…?
3rd M.: I hate to say it, but this has a very familiar feel to it? Kind of 2016-ish. Know what I mean?
1st M.: Hey guys; I don’t want to be alarmist, but… Does this feel a little bit like a conspiracy? Anybody getting that vibe?
2nd M.: You mean because Bloomberg turned off his money spigot at the exact same moment two other presidential hopefuls surprised everyone by stepping out of the race prior to Super Tuesday, all relevant parties coincidentally throwing their endorsements to the least dynamic candidate in the Democratic race? Is that what you mean by conspiracy?
1st M.: Well, not only that, but by the mainstream media’s total acquiescence in accepting Biden’s sudden and apparently non-controvertible ascendance. Also, by employing a similar speed and acquiescence in portraying Bernie’s instantaneous fall from front runner to also-ran.
3rd M.: I’m sorry, guys. I’m only a dancing marionette. This conspiracy stuff is way above my pay grade.
2nd M.: Me too, but wait. What’s happening…? The music’s changing…!
1st M.: Recognize it…?
3rd M.: I did. I’m certain it was playing “Yankee Doodle…”
2nd M.: Yes, but now, if you listen carefully, it sounds like a Russian folk song.”
1st M.: Okay, you guys know I love, honor and esteem you even as I tell you to shut up and keep dancing, right?
Folks in these parts recall how this damn nasty swamp you see in front of you was once a modern Capital City, name of Washington, D.C. Then, of course, as the legend goes, Swamp Creature moved into the environs and, quick as a jumping frog on a hot stove, started draining the swamp, as he repeatedly promised, to get himself elected President of These United States.
‘Course Swamp Creature never exactly mentioned which swamp he’d be draining and to where he’d be releasing the stinking, toxic swamp effluence. As it later turned out, he was talking about draining the swamp filled from his business dealings back in New York City, which contained all the swampy murkiness of Swamp Creature’s previous questionable dealings; like his improper bank loans, his serial bankruptcies; his bogus charity; his questionable real estate transactions; his unprovoked acts of sexual aggression. And, of course, his falsified tax filings and other mob-like shenanigans.
Truth is, when you drain one swamp, reason dictates, somewhere there’s a swamp getting swampier from the draining. In this case, the locale of that swampier swamp was that aforesaid Capital City mentioned above.
But anyone who believes bringing in Swamp Creature to drain a swamp will result in anything ‘cept more swampiness deserves to spend two hours at lunch with Mitch McConnell. You remember Mitch, if only from remembering the one kid in grade school you wanted to punch in the face; the kid you could always count on to snitch on everyone else in class. Mitch was only one of the many swamp denizens enlisted by Swamp Creature to do his bidding and to help transform Capital City into a nightmarish City of Swamp.
Nobody, least of all the citizens of Capital City, expected Swamp Creature to so quickly transmogrify normal, rule-of-law Republicans like Mitch McConnell, Ted Cruz, Rand Paul and Lindsey Graham into soulless, lying and cheating, ass-kissing Swamp Creature sycophants. But he did, and without raising a sweat.
Swamp Creature’s other top henchmen included Billy “The Kid” Barr, enlisted to shoot up and tear down the once proud Department of Justice; Mike Pence, particularly effective as “The Smiling Stooge” who immediately gave Swamp Creature the patina of Republican respectability he needed after his Russian-assisted election victory. And then there was Mike “The Ass Kisser” Pompeo who would sacrifice his own children, as well as the entire Department of State, on the altar of Swamp Creature’s thirst for a second elected term.
A second elected term, legend has it, in which Swamp Creature could finish draining the United States Treasury to pay for all his Florida golf expeditions. And to complete the job of desecrating all the familiar landmarks and traditions that once made the Capital City a beacon on a hill for the planet’s meek, humble and poor.
And, as legend declares, a second term to finish the task Vladimir Putin had set for him before his first term…the destruction of American democracy and America’s network of Western allies who once, in the time before Swamp Creature moved to Capital City, stood together like a solid wall as a bulwark against Russian aggression.