How Are You Making Out?

What’s on my mind? “In a world where you can be anything, be kind.” Great advice! And if you encounter Mr. or Ms. Nasty? Turn the other cheek - and I don’t mean your backside, Baby.

This is a time of unprecedented challenges and heartaches. Some people’s emotions are at or near the breaking point.

On opening yesterday’s email, I found an intriguing chicken recipe from my friend Judy. I wrote about Judy a few days ago: She’s been calling friends to ask how they’ve been making out (not the best choice of words, but oh, well) during COVID. By chance, I’ve been doing the same thing for a couple of months (I’m not talking about “making out” - that’s a given, ha-ha).

Judy’s kindness was an unexpected ray of sunshine. It made me think about how fortunate we are. That got me thinking about helping others boost their spirits.

The fact is, many of us are getting bored and frustrated with the day-to-day humdrum of our lives. So here are a few suggestions, starting with … S-E-X!

I’ve spelled it out so any young children trying to make out (not the best choice of words, but oh, well) this page won’t understand the word. 

It’s a little embarrassing to raise (sorry about that!) S-E-X on Facebook, and not everyone’s interested, so strike S-E-X from your activities list if you aren’t. But if S-E-X interests you, HOLEY MOLEY, go for it!

Good grief, I said HOLEY MOLEY! That wasn’t some sly, coded reference to body parts. It would be in poor taste to pubicly  declare that I like S-E-X and I aspire to being a good-taste kinda gal. 

The bottom (oh, dear) line is that my innocent reference to “good taste” doesn’t mean I’ve got S-E-X on the brain. So I’ll add S-E-X to my activity list, and if you want S-E-X on yours, do the nasty in private. What-e-ver! Your secret’s safe with me.

My suggestions for staying fulfilled (a slip of the pen, BFFs) include firing up your Kindle (whoo-hoo!); pursuing a hobby in something you’ve always wanted to do (not THAT!); and reaching out to touch someone (I’m not touching THAT one, either). 

Don’t forget to thank essential workers (no comment) and seek a Higher Power (preferably, not salacious).

Share what you have (I’m starting to sweat); ask if you need help (ditto); and never lose hope (or faith … or charity).

Those in your bubble may enjoy such games as Twister (self-explanatory) or tic-tac-toe sucking (whoo-hoo!) … There’s plenty to keep you busy. Some people like crosswords ... Not I! No one wants S-E-X with a grump.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

The Danger of Me-First Thinking

What’s on my mind? The day-to-day tedium of COVID-19: The social distancing; the home confinement; the wearing of masks in public places; the inability to visit friends one-on-one. 

Live with it, Baby Doll: Dying from COVID would be significantly harder.

What if your choices were different? What if you said: “I choose not to get sucked into the negativity and vortex of fear”? In other words, ignore the pandemic. I know someone who’s done exactly that. Sounds pretty good, right? An anti-vaxxer, her recent birthday party featured a DJ and a newly installed dance floor. 

She’s posted Facebook pix of herself at a bar. She’s currently staying at a luxury resort and spa. Good? Uh-uh. Bad. Very, very bad - precisely the selfish behavior that perpetuates the spread of a deadly virus. Maturity and critical thinking skills will get us through this crisis. Me-first thinking will not.

Me-first thinking is irresponsible. So is COVID denial and the inability to grasp reality. Suggesting COVID is a hoax is wilful ignorance that puts lives at risk - your own, your family’s, and the lives of those around you. Suck it up, buttercup.

COVID is depressing on many escalating levels. You’re bored? You won’t be if you’re   fighting for your life. You’re depressed? Get over it. 

 Himself and I sometimes get depressed. And then we poke our noses out the window to inhale the fresh air; we go for a walk; we play cards; we phone or send emails to those who need a lift; we donate what we can to those in desperate need. 

Helping others makes us feel better. A recent psychological study found that helping another person offers a three-way benefit: The person helped feels better; you feel better; anyone observing the good deed feels better. In other words, think less about you and more about others.

This morning, I saw a TV ad for a luxury Alfa Romeo sedan. The attractive blond behind the wheel was on her way to a social event. I found the ad’s elitist message (and timing, during a global pandemic) offensive. 

The number of unemployed is increasing. So is the number of homeless. Some of those still hanging on need to choose between paying the rent and buying food. Essential workers are exhausted. Many hospitals and morgues have reached their capacity. Extremists are rioting. Government bail-outs are becoming stretched. 

Alfa Romeo’s ad highlights the divide between the haves and have-nots. The ad isn’t  meant to offend, but I have to wonder if the subtle message to the rich is that lifting the boredom, depression, and fear of COVID is as simple as buying a new toy - the infinitely costlier version of a DJ and a newly installed dance floor.

I’m cranky, I suppose, but (as much as I love animals)  the tear-jerking TV ads for the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty of Animals (ASPCA) also offend me. There’s plenty online about these ads: Read it. My guess is that the ASPCA is highly sensitive about such searches, because the overwhelming number of sites I looked at were critical of how much money actually goes to animals in need. 

I’ve wondered the same, so within seconds of my Googling the question, the site I checked linked directly to a lawyer’s office. Shortly after, a representative of that very office was online for a “chat.” I immediately disconnected from the site.

To the best of my knowledge, the ASPCA has not published an annual report since the end of 2018, when it claimed $283 million in assets. At the time, its CEO was paid $712,397 and $57,129 in benefits, for a total compensation of $769,526. 

I have no way of knowing if the site from which I got this information is or is not true, but I do know several things: 1/ The best way to protect animals is through strengthened local, state, and provincial laws as well as tough federal legislation. 2/ Although animal abuse and neglect are tragic, people should take priority over animals during this desperate time of COVID. 3/ Charities able to spend hundreds of millions of dollars on sad-sounding TV ads are not the kind of charities I want to support.

As people around the world suffer, others spend money recklessly. Let’s hope the ultimate cost of a DJ and a dance floor doesn’t deliver any nasty surprises.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

How to Destroy a Burger Joint in One Easy Lesson

Note from me to you: I should probably be commenting on President Donald J. Trump’s call to far-right extremists and terrorists to rise up against democracy. Despite all evidence, Trump continues to believe he won the election “in a landslide.” Wrong-o: President-elect Joe Biden won, weeks ago. As Trump continued to insist the election be overturned, and Wednesday’s riot ripped through Washington’s Capitol Building, five people died in the insurrection he encouraged. 

Although a truculent, deranged, dangerous Trump will be leaving office Jan. 20th, the Democrats are fast-tracking Monday’s vote to begin impeachment proceedings against him. May they succeed in that endeavor. 

I should - and want - to comment about that, but haven’t the heart. I’m sickened by the wackos and conspiracy theorists who still believe Joe Biden “stole” the presidential election from Trump. I’m sickened by Trump’s dog whistles to terrorists he calls “patriots.” 

I’m sickened that the President’s enablers continue to support his cheating, lying, malignant narcissism, racism, self-dealing, income tax evasion, adultery, and lack of any moral compass. 

No, I won’t be commenting on Donald Trump. Better and smarter minds can do that. Those closer to the scene can do that. Those who know Trump well can do that. If this commentary were about Donald Trump, it would be titled How to Destroy a Country in One Easy Lesson. 

Instead, this is a story about How to Destroy a Burger Joint in One Easy Lesson. Although it’s an awful story, it’s a true one, as all my posts are. I hope it will make you smile. God only knows, we all need a smile, these days - Nicole

Canadian photographer John Denniston, with whom I used to work, recently reminded me that I once single-handedly destroyed a burger joint.

In an unfortunate episode of Dorkism, I decided to ferret out Vancouver’s Best Hamburger, the plan being to write a newspaper column about my search as John photographed happy diners with full mouths and tummies. 

The story had everything to do with driving a whole lot of miles, asking a whole lot of questions, and chowing down a whole lot of (burp!) burgers. Advertisers? I didn’t give a fig, and nor did the newspaper, in those innocent days. 

When a little burger joint beat its big-time competitors, 20-person lineups formed outside the restaurant’s door. Disaster ensued.

When the regulars couldn’t get in, they stopped coming. Run off their feet with the increase in business, the staff started quitting - sometimes in the middle of a shift. With fewer staff and longer lineups, first-time customers gave up trying to get in. It didn’t take long for the place to slide into receivership. I hang my head in shame.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

Revenge is Best Eaten Cold

What’s on my mind? My brother René, connoiseur of butter tarts, (NICOLE PARTON IS IN PATAGONIA) knows how to give as well as he gets. A few years ago, when René and wife Leslie were visiting New York, he was checking out an art show when he saw Sir Paul McCartney. Which was what he told gullible Moi at the time. 

From the moment I swallowed that bit of fiction, he began spinning a story so wild I believed it had to be true. So this was what he told me: Not wanting to look like the wild-eyed, Beatle-crazed maniac he is, René played it cool, nonchalantly sidling over to Sir Paul, who was bent over a painting called Norwegian Wood. (Beatle lovers will recognize those words as the title of a popular 1965 Beatles’ song.)

His Pinocchio nose growing longer by the second, René claimed he sidled over to McCartney, commenting: “Isn’t it good?” His story unfurling, René told me his sly use of the song’s refrain sent Sir Paul a subtle signal René was an “okay guy.” 

As René blathered on, Sir Paul allegedly turned from the painting to shake René’s  hand and greet him as he might an old friend. 

(At that point, I couldn’t restrain myself, saying something like: “Wowwwww!!!” and quizzing René if he’d asked Sir Paul for his autograph. I assumed René had but no-o-o-o ... He was playing it cool. 

Hanging on René’s ever word, I pressed: “So what did you do?” Said René: “I asked Sir Paul: ‘What about a photo?’ He said ‘Yes.’ ” 

By this time, I was twitching with excitement. “I WANNA SEE IT! LEMME SEE IT!” René told me to stifle. 

“What happened next?” I asked.  René continued: “I handed him the camera, Leslie and I posed, and he took our picture.” 

“Wh-a-a-at??? You idiot!” I screamed. “You should have taken a picture of him!” René's tut-tut grin told me I’d been had. Literally for years, I’ve been quietly waiting to out-fox him, as I did in yesterday’s post.

René’s love of butter tarts and my promise to send him some tart pans had blinded him to the illogic of my visiting Patagonia for 16 long months. Hell, I don't even drive to the post office without asking Himself to come along in what we seniors consider an “outing.”

What’s the old saying about revenge? That it’s best eaten cold. To which I might add: Like a butter tart.

© Nicole Parton, 2021

NICOLE PARTON IS IN PATAGONIA

What’s on my mind? Mischief!

Don’t ask why (dunno), but it’s not even April Fool’s Day and I’m already torturing my brother, René, who believes every word that falls from his big sister’s face. 

When René wrote that the Christmas tart pans I sent him arrived in the wrong size (What sane person understands $%#@ metric???), I was too weary to sort it out, so Himself did.

 

Yesterday, without a word of explanation and with Himself in on the joke, I sent René a phoney “AUTOREPLY” that “NICOLE PARTON IS IN PATAGONIA UNTIL APRIL, 2022. SHE WILL ANSWER WHEN SHE IS ABLE.”

Himself answered René’s email, telling him how to return the tart pans we’d bought via Amazon and saying Himself would order them in the correct size. Himself is some sort of metric genius. 

Again, with no explanation of the reason for my trip, Himself wrote René: “Hi René!  Labels have been emailed to you from Amazon. Please print and follow instructions to send back. Nicole says hi from Patagonia. She reports she is very hot there. (Ohhh, YES!!!) Happy New Year!”

At the close of his thank you to Himself, René wrote: “Cheers, beers and happier new year(s) to you both.

 

René

 

PS: Patagonia!?”

A few hours later, I wrote René: “Hi from Patagonia, Chile, where I expect to be researching for 16 months. There was a problem with the tart pans …? I don’t know what, but Himself has apparently fixed it. It’s already Jan. 1 here. I’ve had trouble sleeping (jet lag) and must hit the hay again. My email reception is sporadic, so I’ll wave bye-bye for now! xox Nicole 

PS: Himself, if you’re dealing with the Amazon, I may have had a better shot at it from here, though I’ve been told we have no post office - just a mail boat every 10 days.” 

This morning, when my ever-trusting brother wrote again, I’d already fixed the header on my email to read: “Re: Tart Pans! Re: Re: Re: AUTOMATIC REPLY”

“Hi, Nicole ... and happy new year to you.  I was sure surprised by news of your current whereabouts, and now I look forward to hearing about the nature of your research. (I'm assuming you’d already considered just doing a Google search.) Hope you get your internal clock / circadian rhythms back to normal soon.

xoxo

René 

After waiting an appropriate length of time, I answered:

“I guess I can cancel my auto-reply. It’s very humid here. I’ll be living in a tent in Maquinchao for the next few months before moving on to El Bolson. The other researchers are extremely wary of pumas, but I’m not in the least afr

 y3ch weCREe jegeacsh A64JZL>?*””LKJ HY4

© Nicole Parton, 2021 

Holiday Wishes on a Cold Winter’s Morning!

What’s on my mind? One of the many perks of having Canadian cartoonist Graham Harrop as a long-friend is that he spoils us with a gorgeous cartoon each year. This is Graham’s 2020 card. May you all be so lucky! And - despite the sadness and the anger and the necessary restrictions of 2020 - may you all do your best and be your best for a safe, sane, calm and happy Christmas.

And thank you, Graham and others around the world, for your greatly appreciated readership and notes. xox Nicole

© Graham Harrop, 2020 

She Knew Nozzink!

What’s on my mind? Stuff happens. Stupid stuff, to be sure. Stupid medical stuff I wouldn’t normally mention.

A few days ago, I had the kind of minor, out-of-the-blue “medical incident” that eventually knocks on everyone’s door. And so it was that a technician wired me up and plugged me in. I distinctly remember her telling me that I shouldn’t remove the electrodes, but that she would do it. 

Tottering home, I went about my daily business, forgetting that a machine would be sending NASA (what-ev-er!) beep-beeps about my bawdy parts. Sitting vaguely reminded me of the electric chair (“I’ll tawk! I’ll tawk! I wuz framed!”), so I tried not to sit too much.

Today was the day the electrodes came off. We dutifully drove to the technician’s office, only to find her AWOL. The woman who answered my knock on the COVID-secured door said she couldn’t unplug me because she knew nozzink about electrodes, advanced physics, the collision of stars in the universe, or stupid medical stuff.   

She told me to go unplug myself. I considered answering in kind, but would never swear at a well-meaning, hard-working essential worker. I whinged: “I don’t know how to do-o-o it! I can’t re-e-e-ach those places!” She nodded toward our car, with Himself behind the wheel.

“Zat your husband?” she asked. “Yeah,” I said. “He can unplug you,” she said, before closing the door in my face. 

When I told Himself what had happened, he said: “Here, let me help you!” He’s the obnoxious, cheerful type.

When he tried, I said: “No! Get away from me!” I’m the obnoxious, independent type.

I bent, I contorted, but couldn’t quite manage the plugs. So Himself took a turn, reaching under … Never mind what he reached under! He unclipped the $#@! plugs. I was happy to have them off - so happy that if I were a smoker, I might have had one. 

Considerably more relaxed, I knocked on the door, again. The same woman appeared.

Handing her the bag of electrodes, I said: “Look, I’m really sorry I was short with you a couple of minutes ago. You were right. My husband took everything off. We’ve been married 10 years: It’s the closest thing to car sex we’ve ever had.”

© Nicole Parton, 2020 

Thinking Outside the Box

What’s on my mind? In this unusual and tragic year, Himself wanted to make our annual Christmas garden extra bright to cheer up our neighbors. So here’s what happened when he did. 

A few nights ago, our friend Bev brought her two-year-old granddaughters to tour the garden by night. Of the many lit gardens around here, ours is probably one of the smallest, but Himself and I always get lit at Christmas. 

We stayed inside during the children’s tour, but saw one one little girl pet an artificial deer, while the other put a small gift bag on the sidewalk - perhaps because I told Bev I’d leave a small box of chocolates on the mat for the girls. This story is about those chocolates. 

Rather than give homemade cookies for Christmas - perhaps not the best idea in the Year of COVID - I’d previously bought a few small boxes of Belgian chocolates as holiday gifts for the neighbors. 

Ever-efficient, I’d already gift-tagged the boxes and placed them under the tree, briefly forgetting I’d promised the children chocolates, too. Problem: I hadn’t bought an extra box. When Bev rang the bell, I was unsuccessfully trying to claw off a tag labelled “Lee and Carole,” our neighbors across the street.

An uncomfortable number of seconds passed before I gave up and opened the door, rearranging my face from frenetic to calm and cow-like. 

Pasting a placid smile on my face, I said: “Hi-i-i, Bev … Nice to se-e-e-e yo-u-u-u.” Trying to appear relaxed, I lounged against the door frame while - behind my back and unseen to Bev - sending Himself desperate hand signals. 

With a passable command of Spousal Signaling, Himself caught on that there must be an “issue” with the box of chocolates. 

Himself is sometimes hit-and-miss in Spousal Signaling, but his talent for Spousal Mind Reading is keen. He instantly grasped that whatever “issue” the box may have, an “issue” always means trouble.  

Putting 2+2 together, Himself remembered I’d been bending over the box until the doorbell rang. He correctly concluded the “issue” must be the tag on the box. 

And so he jumped into action, doing his best to scrape off the tag before finally giving up and scissoring it off. As I stood in the doorway, he slipped me the box of chocolates, Mission Accomplished. I, in turn, placed the box on the mat, closing the door as the girls began their tour. 

Only then did I see the tag Himself had cut from the box. There it lay on the hallway table - his prize in Spousal Signaling, his victory laurels for Spousal Mind Reading - the scissors directly beside it. The tag read: “Milk Chocolate with Truffle Filling ... Mocha Crème Filling Enrobed in White Chocolate …” and so on. Unsure exactly what the “issue” was, Himself had removed the tag describing the chocolates in the box.

Which is how Bev’s granddaughters came to receive a box of chocolates labeled “Lee and Carole,” and why we, in turn, got a tantalizing description of the contents of a box of fine Belgian chocolates we’d just given two two-year-olds.

We felt like dorks. We are dorks. If there’s a silver lining, it’s that Lee and Carole will never know what they’ve missed. Unless they ask to tour the garden, of course. In which case, we'll hand them a box of chocolates labeled “Tom and Ann.”

© Nicole Parton, 2020

The Santa Clause of Life’s Contract

What’s on my mind? 

I was 16. My job was to steer over-excited kids onto Santa’s lap; to blow up balloons with a hand pump as Santa grilled them; and to hand the brats a balloon and a candy cane before their beaming moms.

Probably the sole reason Santa got the job as a department-store Claus was that he was fat. Probably the sole reason I got the job as a department-store elf was that I wasn’t. The elf costume fit perfectly, as it had for the many, many, men-nee elves who’d preceded me. A quick sniff of the underarm area confirmed that.

Santa’s German accent was thicker than goulash. A tiny fleck of spittle usually danced on his lips. Terrified by his voice, his spun-plastic beard, and ... well, the spit, some kids wailed and peed on his legs. Santa bounced them on his knee to shut them up; the photographer took a picture; I handed them a balloon and a candy cane; their mothers took them away and ordered them to stifle.

On our coffee breaks, Santa’s beard came off and his feet went up in a foldable secular house painted with fake gingerbread men, candy canes, and a sign reading THE NORTH POLE. The house was near the red velvet chair where his equally red velvet suit routinely absorbed the pee hits. If the still-stinky underarms of my elf costume were any indication, the department store wouldn’t be dry cleaning any elf or Santa outfits when our Christmas gig ended. 

I joined Santa on these breaks, pumping up extra balloons to get ahead of the mob. Moms sometimes plunked three kids on his lap; I needed to be ready when the hordes descended.

In the privacy of his foldable house, Santa loved nothing more than to reminisce about his Glory Days in the Luftwaffe. With my reading mostly focussed on porn, I didn’t know much about the war. Trying to make conversation, I said: “My father was a tail-gunner with the Royal Air Force. He flew over Dresden at 20,000 feet.”

Santa glanced up from his reverie. In a soft, even voice, he asked: “Was ist das?” I assumed the question was hypothetical, and continued pumping balloons. 

Without warning, Santa screamed: “WAS IST DAS!?!?” He sounded like I imagined an interrogation officer would sound, which was exactly how (as I later learned at the movies) interrogation officers sounded. 

Also without warning, he snatched my balloon blower, pushing it down his pants (“Is that a balloon blower in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”).

Outside the foldable house, with Santa back in his chair, everyone was decking the halls and laughing about a holly, jolly Christmas and asking Rudolph to lead their sleigh tonight while my virginal 16-year-old lips couldn’t pucker hard or fast enough to meet the demand for balloons. I was a lamb thrown to the Wölfe. Kids started mewling: “I want a bal-lo-o-on!” Even two candy canes wouldn’t pacify them.

Santa told the department store I wasn’t up to the job. I told the department store Santa was a closeted Nazi who’d stolen my balloon blower. The department store fired me. I had to turn in my sweaty elf costume. This experience taught me to steer clear of men in red suits.

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Nicole Cuts Himself’s Hair

What’s on my mind? 

I am the Delilah to my husband’s Samson. When I recently cut his long COVID hair, his strength ebbed - an understatement. He screamed and almost fainted.

Himself is one of those hippie-at-heart guys who, in his long-ago youth, wore a ponytail and mustache. He looked lousy in a ponytail, but only moderately lousy in a mustache.

I now sport an 8-inch COVID ponytail. For the first time since I was (never) a hippie, I can wear my hair up or down. I look lousy with my hair down, but only  moderately lousy in a ponytail.

Himself and I are the perfect couple. Neither of us looks lousy all the time, though the hair on Himself’s head has been growing so fast and so long that the scary notion he might wear a ponytail was becoming ever more real each day.  

As though changing gears on a sleek sports car, I effortlessly slipped into Nag Mode: “CUT YOUR HAIR, YOU IDIOT!” Not quite like that, but sorta like that.

How do you get your cut hair while social distancing? Our hair grew another inch as we hemmed and hawed, straddled fences, put the issue on the back burner, and generally took comfort in tired clichés.

I’m no stranger to home haircuts. My father once put a bowl on my head, cutting anything that dangled below it. Arms, legs … Nothing was safe. My friends are on alert that anyone who releases my Grade 1 class photo will face a lawsuit. In that shot, I look like a lanky first-grader whose hair was cut with a bowl on her head. Nuff said.

I once persuaded Himself to let me trim his hair before a party, upon which I learned a man dressed in a tuxedo with a baseball cap isn’t trying to make a fashion statement. Whenever a Fellow Guy said: “Hey, buddy, lose the cap!” Himself snapped: “NO!” Period. Full stop. Conversation closed.

Hair = Identity. Consider the not-you anonymous blockhead whose heavily sprayed comb-over has morphed from orange to yellow to metallic silver with a touch of white. I’ve never met this narcissistic dodo, so I’m splitting hypothetical hairs.

Back to reality. When Himself offered to chop my lousy long hair, I cried: “No-o-o-o!” Still concerned about the social distancing dilemma, he allowed me to cut his only after I said I’d learned my lesson from the baseball cap incident. Which, of course, I hadn’t.  

Ever wondered why barbers and stylists hold hair between their index and middle finger as they cut it? I have. After doing exactly that, I thought: “Hmmm ..? Do I cut above or below my fingers? Above? Below? Above? Below?” I shrugged and picked “below.” 

How wrong could it be, I thought? The second I snipped, he snapped. I knew what I’d done was very wrong. But once you start, you have to finish, right? I finished Himself’s hair re-e-e-al good.

Eye-balling his head in the mirror, Himself let out a strangled sob. Trying to make light of it, I said: “If I stuck a finger in each ear and lifted your chin with another, I could use your head as a bowling ball, ha-ha.”

Himself didn’t laugh. I’m going to buy him another sports cap for Christmas. One with anything - anything - but a slogan about bowling.

PS: Hair means trauma. I’ve written about hair many, many, ma-ny times before. See Diane Cuts Her Husband’s Hair for the story of Himself’s first scalping. 

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Enough, Already!

What’s on my mind? 

Enough, already! Fie on sore losers! 

Fie on babies who mewl about legally conducted elections! Fie on narcissists and grifters! 

Fie on COVID’s indiscriminate cruelty! (But follow the rules and stay safe).  

Fie on it all! 

Think Gingerbread Men! And enjoy my daughters’ funny video and this great recipe: 

https://nicoleparton.blogspot.com/2011/12/gingerbread-men-with-attitude.html

© Nicole Parton, 2020

Chumps for Trump

What’s on my mind? 

“This year will mark the 73rd year of the pardoning, and whether Trump finally admits it, it will indeed be the last of this presidency.” - CNN Politics Online, Nov 18th, on the annual Presidential “pardon” of the Thanksgiving turkey.

Really? The last pardon of Donald Trump’s presidency? Doubt it. Watch for Trump to try to pardon one more turkey - himself - before he leaves office.

The recent election and its run-up cost $14 billion. Last  August - August! - Trump said: “The only way we’re going to lose this election is if the election is rigged.” Three months out and he was already declaring fraud if he lost. 

He lost. And hoodwinked his supporters. They just don’t know it, yet. Fraud? When you’re a cheater, you assume everyone else cheats, too.

He’s blocking Biden’s transition into the White House (I beg your pardon. I never promised you the Rose Garden ...). We’ve all been relegated to the audience of the Daily Donald Show: How mean and petty will this thug and bully get? How loud will his tantrums and outrage be this time? When will riots break out? How much has he spent so far on doomed, baseless lawsuits and recounts? 

In my opinion, those suits are little more than a distraction - one of those “bright, shiny objects” the media’s always talking about.

The real object? Peeling a few dollars from the mesmerized chumps in his thrall; playing the pea-and-shell game with debt; arranging pardons for his family; giving democracy and soon-to-be President Joe Biden the finger; and giving the Courts the slip. 

No matter what, the chumps for Trump will stand by their man. He needs them to validate his importance; they need him to validate theirs. 

Long after he’s gone, when the gawking, paying chumplet in all of us tours the “former” Trump tower and the “former” Mar-a-Lago and the “former” Trump golf courses, I’m guessing it’ll be the gold toilets we stare at longest, pondering all the crap this amoral charlatan flushed down.

That’s my opinion and I’m sticking to it.

© Nicole Parton, 2020  

The Crazed, the Crisis, and the Cult of Donald Trump

What’s on my mind? 

If Donald Trump were to fall on his head (clunk!); pardon himself for all past and future crimes; wheedle that he wants to play with “that big red button;” and start signing blank proclamations with “Forever, The Don;” his Republican enablers might roll their eyes with one of those “Oh, you kidder!” looks. 

But if Trump began singing “We Are the World;” conceded the best man won the election and “I ain’t it;” recanted every conspiracy theory he’d ever absorbed, retold, and retweeted; embraced fair-minded media outlets; told Rosie O’Donnell he respected her; told Melania he loved her; told Putin, Kim, Xi, and other dictators the bromance was over; apologized to every person, corporation, and agency he’d ever hurt, lied, cheated, unfairly fired, or otherwise trashed …  

If he did that and restored every international treaty from which he’d precipitously withdrawn; every diplomatic relationship he’d ended in a fit of pique; admitted he’s not the brightest bulb in the chandelier; trusted reason, science, and the wisdom of daily briefings; and (oh-h-h-h, yes-s-s-s!) admitted Don Jr.’s an angry jerk, Rudy’s a nutter, Dr. Scott Atlas is out of his depth, and he (the 45th President of the United States) has been an incompetent loon since Day One as well as being a danger to the free world ...

Well ... If Trump did this and more, those same Republican enablers might shake in their shoes, knowing the jig is up. 

Say bye-bye, Donald. Time to put on your big boy pants and stop being such a cry-baby.