25 years ago: Yes, maybe, and nofuckin’ way

Things I could have easily believed about the year 2017 twenty-five years ago, when I graduated from college:
  • People would be using computers to videoconference in real time
  • The notion of “writing letters” would be a quaint memory for most
  • Most entertainment (music, movies) would not be stored on the physical media of the day, but retained digitally in remote places or on tiny devices
Things I could have believed with only minor difficulty:
  • The Red Sox would win three or more World Series
  • I would run a marathon at 5:30 pace
  • I would settle in Colorado
Things I would not have believed under any circumstances:
  • The U.S. President would be both deranged, stupid, and proudly immoral
  • A lot of people would be happy that the POTUS was deranged, stupid, and proudly immoral
  • That POTUS would be Donald Trump
Anyone who thinks I dislike Trump because he’s a Republican is mistaken. I do hate congressional Republicans uniformly and a good many Dems as well, and figure that almost anyone who runs for high office has some kind of obvious flaw inviting a massive and crippling punch to the middle of the face.

I found Trump detestable way back in the 1980s, although at that point he just seemed like what he was — an idiot who’d inherited a bunch of cash, was marrying women way out of his league thanks to being rich, and was repeatedly getting into financial problems because he was clearly a shithead (and, it seemed, proudly so).
Here’s the most charitable thing I can say about Donald Trump now, after all of the bullshit I need not revisit. I hope he dies in excruciating pain and despair, and that for the last days of his life he is eaten alive, that mass of stinking, overfed quasi-humanity and the vestigial brain within the misshapen skull, by the undeniable reality that everyone fucking hated him; that all the money in the world couldn’t get people to like him. As noxious gases lustily fart their way out of every grotesque aperture of this bloated waste of carbon, he needs to be tortured by this knowledge, because unfortunately there’s no actual hell waiting for him. I hope the last thing he sees is a pair of zitty butt cheeks lowering themselves over his face and disgorging a huge mass of shit onto its uglyfuck center, and I hope the plop of it onto his malformed countenance coincides with his final, fetid exhalation and the thought: “Oh how I fucking sucked.”
And I hate Mitch McConnell even more.
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