Sunday, July 9, 2017

July 9, 2017

Dear Diary,

I've never liked oatmeal or Cream of Wheat, buy until my dentures are repaired, they're just about the only breakfasts I can eat without using a straw and a bib. This past week has been very difficult for that reason. Everything Bessie has brought me has had to be puréed in the blender, which doesn't do much for a roast beef sandwich on rye, I can promise you that.

I was up a little earlier than usual, because I heard a rumor that Carrot Head up and left the G20 meetings, leaving his little tramp daughter Ivanka there to take his place. I was floored when I heard that. I mean, who does that? I love Chelsea, but I would never think about letting her take my place in any capacity, even though Bill thinks she's ready. 

Sure, he can thinks what he wants about Chel. It's not his kid. Jeez.

It's not that Chel isn't terribly bright or so incredibly homely not as beautiful, capable and accomplished as Carrot Head's kid. It's more that chel can be unpredictable. Like when she was a child, she desperately wanted to play the piano. So we expensed a piano on our government account bought her an upright piano, just like the ones you see in whorehouses. Bill figured that if Chel ever got good enough, she could save him a ton in entertainment expenses. When she was nine years old and practicing "Camptown Races", he'd sneak up behind her, slap a derby hat on her head and stick a cigar in her mouth, which made her look like a female midget version of Hoagy Carmichael.

Chel took it in good stride, but unfortunately, she never was any good on the keyboard. She practiced "Fur Elise" for something like seven years, and on her best days, it still sounded like a circus seal honking out Beethoven on a set of car horns. Even the neighbors were starting to complain, but I thought it was a fine life lesson: "Resist and Persist!" 

I didn't realize how much Chel hated practicing until one day, I came home from an afternoon session with Huma important meeting to find she'd sold the piano on Craigslist. Up until that point, I'd been under the impression she was crying at the keyboard because she felt so moved by the music. Turns out that she considered practicing some kind of torture. My not letting her get up to pee for that entire hour didn't help, I guess.

Kids. What are you going to do? You try your best and that's all you can do, right?

We finally talked it out and decided she was much more suited to taxidermy, so that afternoon we bought a whole set of knives, scalpels and needles on Amazon and brought home a little kitten from the shelter. 

It just goes to show you that no matter how grown up you think they are, they're still kids. They need guidance. Am I right? 

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