Wherein I use extreme amounts of literary license to respond to something called a “micro-blog,” the day after the U.S. presidential election (not sure if I need to capitalize the “p-word”. Grammarians, do your thing!).
Or, Twitter is on fire. I feel as if I must respond. And I have two accounts; if I need to use them, I will.
Or, Shouting Into the Void.
I’m a social media voyeur. I’ve never been a Dear Abby, Ann Landers, Heloise, nor Miss Manners. My friends and family generally guffaw (Don’t you just love that verb? Learned it from my Nana) at my advice. But the Twitter Literati, extra extreme devotees who troll this digital means of expressing oneself on the Interwebs, often present themselves as a convenient punching bag. I chose the day after the election to select a few random tweets — none of them from our current Tweeter-in-Chief, but several pointedly about him, or responding to him, to try to reflect how I was feeling on November 4, 2020, the National Day of Angst. Also known as the Day After Election Day.
I need to confess before I start this exercise. I have two Twitter accounts — three, if you count my “school” account, which I created when my high-schoolers spent more time on social media than paying attention to the teacher (me) in the classroom. I’m not on that one often, so don’t count it for the purposes of this exercise.
One of my platforms is my “Writing” Twitter, which is pretty much self-explanatory, and which I created in a universe long ago and far away, when I had a nascent blog. Another is my “Political” Twitter, which I created in January 2017 so I could aim pointed comments at the current occupant of the White House. Or, as my Nana would say, “rip the bark off him”. Try to guess which one of my accounts has more “followers”? If you said my more erudite (or not so, depending on your point-of-view), “writing” Twitter, you would be wrong. My “political” account has 8,000-plus and counting. A lot of folks with time on their hands, I reckon.
As a writer (in my own mind, at least), I devised an experiment the day after Election Day. So, in no particular order, I present to you “My Totally Mundane but Sometimes Amusing Replies.” Or, what I would have said to Twitter posters on November 4, 2020 if I’d had enough characters (280 units is such a constricting measure) to reply to all of these Interwebs sages. Twitter users posted the following missives on November 4, except for the first one, from funny man Stephen Colbert, which he posted on November 3, which was National Sandwich Day. I wrote all of my responses on November 4, and they are published here for no reason, other than I’d like for you to read them and tell me what you think.
Please note that I’ve just reviewed this carefully curated collection, and believe my responses — even the stupid ones — stand up pretty well. You can respond to my expanded comments in the “comments” section of this post.
My favorite is pastrami and swiss on rye. Lettuce, tomato, onion and spicy mustard. Toast the bread, please. And a side of chips is a nice addition.
Seriously, if I’d had this for lunch on Election Day, maybe I wouldn’t be feeling so stressed out today. But we just moved, and I’m having difficulty finding a decent deli in my new neighborhood. I’m feeling a little like if Mr. Rogers came home, walked in the door, reached in the closet, and couldn’t find his sweater. Or if Radar O’Reilly lost his intuitive sense of knowing everything. Not a “M*A*S*H” fan? Highly recommend.
I’m not from New York, but I do share a New Yorker’s penchant for delicious foods of convenience. We’ve had pizza several times in our new digs — ordering out, as you know, is the way to go during Covid Times — but I haven’t landed on one pie I can rely upon. There’s a pizza joint up the street with great toppings, but the crust tastes like pita bread. They say that’s the “Neapolitan” style, but I’ve been to Naples (both Italy and Florida, but we all know I’m talking about the Bel Paese in this instance), and Italian pizza crusts taste nothing like pita. Then there is the outfit near us aptly named “Brooklyn Pizza,” but I’ll just say it’s not New York and leave it at that.
So, back to stress and sandwiches. Have you tried a Gyro? Some pizza places in my new hood also sell Gyros. And, yes, the yummy insides of a gyro are wrapped in pita, so there’s that. And I’ve often found these Greek culinary imports to be both satisfying, and in a Mediterranean way, they do take the edge off any anxiety I appear to be suffering at the time I sit down to enjoy my midday repast. Just a few thoughts. Hope this helps!
I can only say one thing: Don’t bogart that joint, my friend. By the time this election mess is all over, it looks like we’re all going to have to move to Oregon.
Jennifer Aniston and Ben Affleck, right? Like many Aniston flicks, I remember watching the 2009 gem, “He’s Just Not That Into You,” but don’t really remember much about it. Jen is one of those actresses who doesn’t really grow on her audience (at least on me) as she ages. I keep thinking about Rachel and Ross and the fact that they were “on a break,” you know?
Not to turn this exercise into a review, but there is one Aniston artistic effort I really did like — “The Morning Show.” The older Aniston has finally figured out how to present her character to an audience without the cuteness — which, I think, is a genuine relief. And it helps that Rachel Karen Green, now that she’s 51 or so, is finally not afraid to hide her bitchy self. Of course, playing foil to Reese Witherspoon helped. But — and I don’t know if this is a commentary on me or on pop culture in general — I never have the same trouble watching a Witherspoon vehicle as I do one that Aniston attempts. When she’s toiling along the Pacific Crescent Trail, I really do believe, for the length of the movie anyway, that Reese is Cheryl Strayed. I rewatched “Walk the Line” a couple of weeks ago, and I could get into the fact that she could be June Carter Cash. And that came out a mere four years after Reese wowed us all as Elle Woods at Harvard.
Somehow, I’ve never felt the same about Jen. No matter the film or the show, I keep waiting for Aniston to burst out with one of those classic “Friends” quotes: “I’m gonna go get one of those job things.” Or, the classic, “Well, what if I don’t want to be a shoe? What if I wanna be a purse or a hat?” And, not to be sexist or anything (hmmmmm…can a woman really be sexist? I think she can in France…oops, wrong actress), but every time I look at Jennifer Aniston I see “The Rachel” — whether she’s wearing feathered side bangs (which she probably hasn’t for 20+ years) or not. And I keep thinking about Brad Pitt. BTW, are you “Team Jen” or “Team Angelina”?
Sort of like every time I look at Donald J. Trump I see a dead ferret on top of a swollen orange melon that’s been sitting on the kitchen counter about three weeks too long. And we know Jen would never stand for that.
I’ve got nothing. Except maybe we need a president who cares just a tad more about the health and well-being of the American people.
Whereabouts do you live? Have you thought about having a convo with Edgar Allen Poe? He’s not around anymore, but I hear if you visit his grave on the great man’s birthday (January 19), toast him from a bottle of cognac, and leave three red roses and the unfinished bottle of cognac as an offering, you might unlock the meaning of life. The “Toaster,” as he’s known, hasn’t visited Poe since 2010, so there seems to be an opening there. PS: In your case, I’ve never heard such a lovely thing said about such nasty birds. Oh, and isn’t “omen” derived from the word “ominous”? And don’t they both indicate “foreboding”? And can one actually experience a “good” omen? I hear you can in France. Oops, used that line already. Oh, word play, how I adore thee.
When we finally have an adult in the Oval Office again, it’s going to take some getting used to. I don’t remember another time in my life, EVER, when I’ve had to fight the urge to check my phone in the middle of the night to see what recent blasphemy has befallen the American people. That’s not normal behavior.
But he’s not a normal president, or even a regular guy. I raised two kids and handled countless tantrums — I think even at their shriekiest, my girls could have run the country on a much more even keel. And we’re talking about one who banged her head against the wall as a toddler when she didn’t get her dinner on time. And one who taunted her little sister so much that she melted down herself, she was so good at it. Both girls in shrieky tears. Great.
If we’re still talking about “antebellum” in 2020, then something is drastically wrong in these United States of America.
I feel ya, as some folks say. But I haven’t had a drink in 17 months (alcohol has a difficult time interacting with the meds I’m on, so I just shelved my red wine all together). That, of course, doesn’t address the situation that this person perhaps finds himself in. I don’t know anything about him, except that his Twitter bio says he lives in NYC and he has about nine hundred gazillion “followers,” those people who click on the button on your profile and then magically become one’s “friends,” but not really.
So, to be clear — I “follow” him, but I’m not his friend. I’ve never met the man. His Twitter feed, though, is an amusing read. And I’m assuming that him being “drunk,” and announcing it in such a public way, could either be a) True; or b) Metaphorical; or c) Both. At any rate, hope he didn’t get “drunk as a skunk,” as my teetotalling Nana used to say, or if he did that he didn’t feel too cranky and out of sorts this morning. I, too, can imagine the pain of those I follow, without following them down the same misbegotten path.
Before this administration, I couldn’t possibly conjure a reason one would call the president the B-Word. But in this case, I say, “Brava!” Quite apropos.
Same author, exact same thoughts from me about her sentiment. Bess Bell is on the proverbial “roll,” wouldn’t you say? I’d say the nation just isn’t into the current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW.
I did a little research, and found out that Cam is one of the “Parkland Kids.” As in those poor children who had to endure the murder of 17 of their classmates and teachers at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida in 2018. That “Valentine’s Day Massacre,” as it were, was a good chance early in the administration for Captain Chaos to step up and show he had possession of a decent set of cajones. But, alas! He diddled, and he dawdled, and he prevaricated and he prattled — in essence, what he always does — and eventually caved to the NRA.
Listen, I was a high school teacher for 23 years. During 9–11, I huddled with 28 terrified 17-year-olds in my classroom, Room 215. And I suffered anxiety attacks every time I saw a white box truck on D.C.-area roads during the reign of terror perpetrated by the Beltway Sniper, over a three-week period one fall, when Homecoming was cancelled and football games moved out of town and field hockey practices took place on a military base surrounded by soldiers with rifles, so no one would get shot. A few years after that, one of my students was murdered in the Virginia Tech Massacre, when 32 innocents, including Leslie, died on that campus on a beautiful spring day. I speak from experience when I say that one shooting — at a school, in the streets, in a crowded public square — is one too many.
I’m pretty sure from the context and the content and the date that he posted it that Cam’s tweet is about his feelings the day after the presidential election. But I saw his name, and I felt his pain.
Please don’t. “Shit me,” I mean.
I’ve read enough about the man to know that all he wants is to be acknowledged. To be seen, as it were. Bigly, in a yuge way. So I can think of no better way to dismiss him than by the entire global population erasing the Screaming Carrot Demon (that’s a new one for me — yes, I looked it up, for the sake of variety) from its collective consciousness.
The need to be loved, to be recognized, to be acknowledged, is born from Narcissistic Personality Disorder, according to the experts. The man’s own niece, Mary Trump, has said her uncle probably suffers from NPD, and more. Mary, a psychologist, has had a first-row seat over the years. She talks about her extended family as “malignantly dysfunctional.” In 2016, The Nation magazine elaborated on The Orange One’s condition in an article entitled, “Have You Ever Seen Donald Trump Laugh?”
“No,” Mary says, according to news reports, “and my grandfather didn’t laugh, either. When you are able to laugh you’re also letting your guard down and that was frowned upon.”
Consequently, the current occupant of the White House reportedly has no real friends. He was a distant dad, like his father before him, and lies constantly to make himself feel better. According to The Washington Post, this sad excuse for a human being lies about 50 times a day. His only real achievement as president has been to rack up 25,000 lies, huge and tiny, according to The Post. Some accomplishment.
Amen, brother. This R Us, as it were.
Fox= What Ivanka thinks she is. Also, TeeVee propaganda pushed by Rupert Murdoch.
Moral to this story: We have a president who literally has no idea what is going on. It’s a testament to the Great American Experiment that we’ve been able to halfway endure almost four years of this crap.
BREAKING: We’ve been broken. We will heal. We will still be here long after Trumplethinskin gets his broke ass thrown out of the White House.