Wednesday, November 30, 2016                                              6:32 PM

One entitled, lecherous, ignorant pig with too much money reaches the age of seventy and decides he’d like to rule the world. I laugh. Our democratic process agrees with him. I weep and curse the heavens.

It isn’t that I’m afraid of his presidency—hell, an asteroid could wipe us all out someday, just as senselessly—it’s just that I mourn the proof that this country is peopled with idiots who mistook an election for a reality game-show. It makes a joke of democracy—and truly, without solemnity, judgement, and good sense, democracy is a farce. And now we have a clown where a leader should be. I never thought we’d have a president that I couldn’t respect—I foolishly thought that Bush-43 had taught us all a lesson.

It can’t be helped. These are the times I’ve lived to witness—and nothing I do or say will change the facts. My problem—my job, if you will—is to learn to live my life, in spite of disaster. I’ve done a fair job of avoiding the subject since Election Day—and that was the right way to go.

I avoid the news—but there are some tidbits that can’t be avoided if I watch TV at all—today’s tidbit was a Trump tweet about hanging flag-burners or some such idiocy. It got it all riled up in my head again—am I going to have four whole years of this crap-fest? So I wrote a ranting post—just like I used to, back before the election rendered discussion moot.

(In fact, I allowed myself crudities that I avoided in the heat of the campaign, back when calling a POS a POS might have been seen as partisan, rather than as simple observation. Now that everyone else has given that jerk a free pass, I’ll give the same to myself.)

I posted my rant—then I walked away—but the next rant had already started writing itself in my head. I realized that I was foolish to let myself be drawn back into arguing with a brick wall—and that it would lead to nothing but stress, anger, and frustration. So, let this suffice for as long as possible. My next blog-post (if there is one) will be about things that matter—or, at least, things that don’t make me ill.