Wednesday, April 26, 2017

April 26, 2017

Dear Diary,

Although Dr. Morell doesn't allow me to watch television, sometimes I can hear through the bedroom door when Bill watches the news, so I get little dribs and drabs about things I simply can't believe.  If I have my hearing aids in, I can hear just about everything, except when he farts, which takes up more time because he seems to think that drinking Pabst Blue Ribbon entitles him to win some sort of competition.  I'll hear a blast and then he'll start laughing and claiming some sort of record for how loud or long or smelly it was.  He really is an idiot.

Anyway, last night when I had my ear to the door, I heard the oddest thing about those French people. Those people have a few screws loose. They get emotional and cry when the bus is late and they hate Americans. As long as they have their red wine and stinky cheeses, you can get anything past them.   Other than that they're not too bad, except for those muslim neighborhoods. Yuck. I never thought I'd see the day when goats would be herded down the Champs d'Elysée.

I guess their election is down to two people now: a woman (Marine Le Pen) and a non-woman (Emmanuel Macron).  I have to say that as a former Secretary of State, this Macron guy really freaks me out. What kind of person marries his high school drama teacher?  She's like 25 years old than he is, which means the whole thing is like a French version of "Harold and Maude," and that's not exactly my favorite movie of all time.  Don't get me wrong, Ruth Gordon is cute but the idea of her naked wrinkled ass crawling all over a young Bud Cort still gives me nightmares.

The age difference isn't even the creepiest part of the relationship. The really nasty part is that they were both in the high school drama department.  Everyone knows how weird kids in the drama department are, which is why everyone hates them.  I remember avoiding them in high school because they would always keep to themselves, singing in the hallways and rehearsing their lines during lunch time.  The girls who got the lead roles always had smiles on their faces and scratches on their knees -- you do the math.

Believe me, nothing says "failure" more than a high school drama teacher.  It's one thing if you can't be a movie star.  Or even a large-breasted weather girl on the local news. But when you can't even get a part in your hair, I guess the only job left is to try to teach younger kids how to prepare for a lifetime of rejection.  The only reason I can think of anyone doing it is for the reward of getting young, fresh pussy inspiring young people.  That, and the medical benefits, because from what I hear, the pay is just slightly higher than McDonalds.

Still marrying your mother just seems odd to me.  Then again, Huma and I have about the same age difference.  Le sigh.

Well, as the French are so fond of saying, "C'est la vie." That's an old, happy-go-lucky French expression.  It means, "What do we care as long as we have cheese?"

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