Who's Ready For Some Good News?

It's usually difficult for me to pinpoint where my nightmares begin. They tend to creep up slowly, sprouting from an innocuous, pastoral plot and slowly morphing into a sweaty, cortisol-soaked paralysis. Eventually, the horror overtakes me, and I jerk awake, terrified yet grateful that some faceless phantasm hasn't successfully pursued me into the world of the living.

There's one nightmare, though—a waking one—whose genesis is embedded with certainty in the forefront of my memory. It was around midnight, November 8, 2016, when reality materialized and the first projections rolled in. And with them entered the incubus whose face we knew all too well.

For a lot of us, it's been a rough two-plus years since the election. And good news has been as scarce as a cat in a bubble bath since that somber January day when a self-indulgent ass bastard planted his chafing woolen rump behind the Resolute Desk. Never in my life have I felt so sorry for a chair.

There have been a few bright spots—John McCain's dramatic, eleventh-hour thumbs-down that preserved the Affordable Care Act, a landslide congressional referendum for women and non-white candidates in 2018—but overall...meh. It's been too much like the '88 Orioles who started out 0-21 or any TV show with Billy Ray Cyrus: just way too much shitiness.

So real quick, here's a nice picture of a puppy:



And a joke I made up on the bus this morning:

Q: What's the difference between Trump and a huge mountain of shit?
A: The huge mountain of shit can grow unlimited toadstools.

Okay, sorry, but back to reality. We witness time and again that hope is the single, most powerful human quality. It allows us to survive against seemingly insurmountable odds (Well, hope and duct tape—see Apollo 13). But this week, with the release of the Mueller report and its inconclusive conclusions, my hope-o-meter is as f*cked up as that contraption the Scientologists use.

It was like coming into the living room on Christmas morning, seeing all the beautifully-wrapped presents under the tree and opening them to reveal the socks you wore last Tuesday and your basketball that's finally back in the house after being on the roof since August. Just a big old goose egg.

But before going further down the abyss, it's time for another made-up joke:

Q: What do you get when you cross Donny Trump, Jr. with Betsy DeVos?
 A: An evil dumb-ass who tried to use his school voucher to get out of third-period long division class.

From what I understand, according to Mueller, Trump attempted to obstruct justice but since no one carried out his orders, no crime occurred. On its face, this makes no sense. If you hire an undercover cop posing as a hitman to kill your sister's brother, that's a felonious solicitation even though the act is never carried out. What's the freaking difference between that and what the orange butt smudge tried to do?

I know that more can come from Mueller's findings, like lots and lots of congressional hearings and even more tantalizing headlines, but really, the simplest way to end this colossal shitshow is at the ballots. Even if we could somehow manage to sever the Trump arm from this diabolic starfish, a new Pence appendage would just spring from its rotting stump.

Oh, and speaking of Pence, how about one last joke?

Q: Why does Pence call his wife "Mother"?
A: Because she is.

It's not good form to live in the past, and even worse to dwell in the future, but in this case, 2020 can't get here soon enough.