Thursday, June 29, 2017

"Horrible Hybrid Creature of Myth and, Uh, Legend."

"I am here." –– Artemus Ward.

I am now in England. Wife and I left LA, we moved back, and we don't have CNN, in fact we don't have a TV and we don't have the Internet and we don't have a landline and we don't have a sofa and we don't even have a bed, we're sleeping on a mattress on the floor inside the empty bedframe and by the way we don't have a kitchen table.

What we have is a cottage crammed full of boxes of books.

I have become so frazzled that I have started referring to books as "boxes" and vice-versa. As if they're the same. I've even dreamt about packing and unpacking boxes.

Last night I dreamt my wife got caught shoplifting from Old Navy.

In those last days in LA, while the Mexican movers were emptying our apartment, we had the TV tuned to CNN all the time, now half-watching, now rapt, now not,  and"Big Jim" Comey was then the hot topic. (Who is there now for me to share a joke with?)  In those days with the movers agreeing with us that this man Trump was peeling off badly awry and the world was gone cockeyed.

When we got to England I was garbling to everybody with great feeling through babbling lips about "Big Jim," "Bob" Meuller, that damn Bannon, Jeffrey Toobin, bad godawful Jeffrey Lord, excellent Don Lemon, Kushner that chinless fortunate son, shining Buddha mind Jim Ocasta and the beautiful quite exquisite Michelle Kosinski. Nobody in England knew what in durnation I was talking about exactly and conversely I didn't know who Theresa May and Jeremy Corbyn were. I'm still not quite sure.

Absent CNN I am not up-to-date on the daily hourly vital battle against OVERCOMBER DON  –– I am also in the dark about the Real Housewives of New York –– and all I get is occasional updates garbled from my wife' –– who can trust that lousy shoplifter –– or from visits to the hotel bar down the street to use their wi-fi. I buy a two pound cup of tea for the privilege, but when I've drunk one cup I go up and quite brazenly ask for another cup of hot water and wring more tea out of the same exhausted teabag.

Like Joe Gould, who wrought tomato soup from ketchup sachets in Greenwich Village.

Today our genial waiter-cum-bartender asked me, "Had a relaxing day so far?"
I hemmed and hawed, considered returning the smalltalk, but preferred to consider the question literally. I remarked, "I don't think I've had a relaxing day in my life."

Then I sat down and watched the Amoeba website with great avidity. It was the Melvins discussing "What's In My Bag".

Who says I have lost my edge.
Who says I have lost my way.

All this is prologue to the following incisive political commentary:

Pathetically scouring the "statistics" page of Blogger I reread one of my old titles from this site, apparently my most popular article, yet nevertheless I misread it. I thought that "Bannon" said "Barron." That "gave me pause".

BANNON
BARRON

Gruesome mirror image.
Sinister doubling motif.
Imagine for a moment if one day Barron Trump married Steve Bannon. He'd become Barron Bannon.

Barron Bannon!

What more creepy hybrid hippogriff, the warped brainchild of Scylla and Charybdis both!,  from the thwarted blasted destroyed diseased mind of a bona fide madman, can be imagined?

Barron Bannon!

("Bruce Banner".)

("Bruce Banner is the Hulk. Barron Bannon is something quite else.")

[Another question: is this what passes for political satire in this neck of the woods?]

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