Sunday, February 5, 2017

February 5, 2017

Dear Diary,

Today is Superbowl Sunday, and between you and me, I couldn't care less.  I suppose that if losing the you-know-what had a good side, it was that I didn't have to put on a big show for the peasants voters by pretending to care about a stupid football game.  I don't even know who's playing.  I think it's Los Angeles and Chicago, because I heard that Rahm Emmanuel and Eric Garcetti have a bet on the game.  If Chicago wins, Garcetti has to send Emmanuel 24 undocumented alien grape pickers and if Los Angeles wins, Emmanual has to send Garcetti 12 Uzi machine guns and six crates of hollow-point bullets.  Men make such a big to-do about sports.  I just don't get it.

I'm pretty sure nobody else really cares about the game, either.  They just watch the TV commercials and the half-time shows, neither of which does much for me, either.  The Super Bowl used to be about America and American stuff.  Now, most of the ads are sponsored by foreign countries that haven't even paid off their debt from World War Two. I used to supercharge Budweisers with the best of them, but these days I won't even use that shit as a douche support the boycott.  I think they're owned by the French now, which is weird because other than Jerry Lewis movies, the French hate everything about us. They used to sniff at me and Bill when we ordered brewskies instead of their over-rated wine and now they're hawking our own suds as if Jesus pissed it into the bottle himself.

Bill loves the SuperBowl.  He has a VHS tape somewhere of "SuperBowl's Greatest Bloopers," which he thinks is just the cat's meow. He can watch Justin Timberlake ripping away Janet Jackson's bra over and over again.  He says it reminds him of his own youth, and who am I to argue? I say let him enjoy his glory days.  After all, now that those ungrateful cunts the voters have kicked us both to the curb made their choice, even state troopers are having a tough time luring young victims scheduling meetings for him.

As Nixon used to say, it's lonely at the top.  Except we're not at the top anymore.  We're not even rich anymore.  Oh, we still have arab cash stashed offshore our investments, but I can tell he misses public life.  I see the far-off look in his eyes every time he rolls a cigar.  He just stares at it, sniffs it and then puts it back in the box.  He doesn't know that since 2002, I've been rubbing it on my nether parts to keep the scent fresh.

Poor Bill.

Anyway, I've decided that right after my lunchtime dose, I'm going to jump right back into bed and binge watch the entire DVD set of Downton Abbey.  I love that show, with all its rich, white people romance and culture.  No affirmative action programs on that show, I can tell you that! Ha! Ha!  Diary, I am SO bad sometimes!!

I like the clothes and the sets and the formal way those Limeys speak.  Also, it's the only show that really knows how to treat an old rich bitch an elderly woman with respect.

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