Friday, July 28, 2017

July 28, 2017

Dear Diary,

For the life of me, I can't understand why everyone is making such a big deal about John McCain voting against the repeal of Obamacare. The man is a veritable walking tumor with almost no functional ability. What did they think was going to happen? I've been around long enough to know that when the doctor tells you in July not to bother with Christmas vacation plans, it can make a person go a little nutty.

Boy, if I had a nickel every time some celebrity croaked after swearing they were "going to beat this thing," I'd have almost as much money as the Clinton Foundation during the fat years. One day, they're on all the talk shows getting standing ovations; six months later they're just another bag of Bandini. You'd think the peasants Americans would have smartened up by now, but the fact that they haven't gives me hope I still have a chance in 2020.

When it comes to dying, the guys who are really cleaning up are dead recording stars. Once a rock star bites the dust, music sales shoot through the roof.  If McCain were smart, he'd be in studio, laying down tracks with whichever black Afro-American rap artist who hasn't been shot yet. It wouldn't matter that John's whiter than an albino in winter. They could just give him a cool name, like "Tumor Shakur" or "Lil Brain Spot" and fix the rest in post. From what I hear, those dark people rappers are pretty good with Garage Band.

I hope all of this doesn't make me sound terribly harsh, diary. Even though we were rivals, I've always wished John would get cancer and die the very best as a Senate colleague. That's what civil people do. Despite our differences, I always felt that brain cancer would be the cruelest curse I could wish on him John was a solid citizen. For me to wish that he would die a grueling, painful demise would make me incredibly happy appear petty and spiteful.

And I'm just not like that.

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