Tuesday, July 25, 2017

July 25, 2017

Dear Diary,

Wasn't feeling very good most of the day. Bessie made me a banana smoothie, but it tasted a little fishy, so maybe she dropped a sardine into the mixer for a little extra protein. She does that every once in a while. Sometimes it's a sardine, other times it's chicken heads.  She says they do that all the time in Haiti. I know she means well, but the whole day I kept throwing up a little in my mouth and once you taste those sardines again, they stay on your breath forever. I had to soak my dentures about five times after lunch just to get rid of the smell.

About the only thing that made me feel better was hearing something about Jeff Sessions getting the axe. I couldn't get all the details, because Bessie locks the door to my room after lunch and I have to put my ear to the wall to hear the TV in Bill's home office. Apparently, Carrot Head is all pissy about the way Sessions recused himself from all that Russian business, instead of toughing it out like a real non-woman.

I have to hand it to those dopes stalwarts like Pelosi, Waters and Schumer. They figured out that all you have to do is stand in one place and yell "RUSSIA," and everyone freezes in place. It reminds me of that old story I used to hear about as a child about the tar baby and how once you touch that stuff it gets all over you. We don't tell that story anymore, though, because you can't say "tar baby" without Black Lives Matter jumping all over you, and the story completely loses its impact when you use "African American baby."

The way I see it, Carrot Head only gave the job to Sessions because he figured Sessions could kick some patoots and get some votes on health care and tax reform. But if you know Jeff, he's always been a pain in the neck, dragging his feet on just about everything. Whenever you go out to dinner with him, he's always the one who spends a half hour quizzing the waiter about whether the salmon is farmed or wild, or if the potatoes are organic. As if that makes any difference. Let's face it, if you're going to get cancer, where your fish spends his free time isn't going to do a whole hell of a lot to help you avoid it. If a tumor has your name on it, you might as well go for the Big Mac with fries. Bill always did and he never got cancer. He does have a mean twelve inch scar on his chest, though.

Just noticed it's Tuesday, which means Bessie should be back from the cleaners with my blankets. I hope they got those stains out. Dark brown is a bitch to remove from summer whites.

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