Guess we're full-on into the presidenting again now, and there's no stopping it, not for another 21 months or so. Ye gods. Seems like only yesterday when I stared into a tube as it informed me the Americans had selected the cretin to be the president. I knew in that moment it was totally true, that we are all trapped in a computer simulation run by some 12-year-old boy in a basement somewhere. Because only some sneering, smirking adolescent, stained with Cheeto dust, would think it a good idea to even have the cretin in the world, much less be the president.
About 9040 people have already announced they will run against the cretin in 2020, these people apparently think it will be easy, on the ground that everyone who is Sane and Decent has spent the last two-plus years running at top speed away from the cretin and all of his works, but apparently they forget that no one Sane or Decent believed the cretin ever had a chance to be the president in the first place, and also there are no real signs, at least visible to me, that the boy in the basement is ready to give up on the cretin, the kid seems quite taken with the character; I mean, for one thing, the boy in the basement invented Twitler, just so the cretin could go on there every morning and melt all of our minds.
The essential lesson of the cretin is that the Americans are too stupid, not to mention cruel, to even have a country. But they don't seem to understand that yet.
And so they will continue on like everything is Normal.
And yet the 2020 presidenting is already so unsane as to bugger description; recently, for instance, the big New York Times presidenting story was that Amy Klobuchar once ate food with a comb. These the depths to which already we have sunk. Like this is supposed to be the sort of information we need to determine whether Klobuchar would be an improvement over the cretin. As if there's even any question.
Look: the cretin eats food with his anus, we know this, he is living off the same hamburger he ate back in 1985, he has a closed system, one sealed tighter than even the snuggest Dune stillsuit, the burger travels from his mouth through his body to his anus, and then back again it goes into his mouth, to repeat the same journey, the same burger recycled over and over again, it is an eternal recurrence burger, and yet we never read about any of that in the New York Times, why is that, it's because the boy in the basement won't let it get in there, that's why.
Even if the town hadn't burned down, I don't think I would be able to survive 21 months of intense debate as to whether it's okay if Klobuchar twirls spaghetti on her comb, but using it to spear peas is totally disqualifying. And so I am taking this opportunity to announce that over the coming endless months and years, I intend in this particular portion of this tube to maintain a presidenting-free zone.
Maybe if the candidates start coming out here to stand in the burned and look Concerned, I will write about it. The cretin, he already did that. At which time he several times referred to the town as Pleasure. A lot of people cackled about that. But, I mean, it could have been worse. Like, he could have called it Precious. He drove right by this place, this was during the maroonment, but it made no impression on me at all, it wasn't important, what was important was that the next day Becky and Heather pierced the maginot line and came to see me, which meant at last I knew for sure they and all the rest of the feed people were alive; that was important; that's what was important then, and that's what's important now. Not the cretin or whoever else wants to flit in and stand in the burned for an hour or so in some naked attempt to get Votes. If somebody presidenting decides to come here and actually live in the burned, maybe then I'll write about them. Otherwise, I really don't want to know. Not here. They can go about their presidenting in some of the other three trillion tubes. As surely they will.
And also to get this out of the way, I will here announce who I am supporting in the 2020 presidenting: Anabella Piugattuk.
About four or five years ago I was in this tube with you political lunatics and you kept pestering me about who I wanted in the 2016 presidenting, and so one day, just to get some peace, I tossed out her name. Which achieved the silence I sought.
But then I thought about it, and decided this woman really should be the president. She is an Inuit woman, and if the Americans have to have a president, I think it should be somebody who's a native. Isn't that what the cretin and his wall are all about? If we're going to go all jihad about "native-born Americans," let's go all the way, I say, let's cabin ourselves to people who've been here 10,000 years or so.
It's true she lives in Iqaluit, which is not technically a part of the United States, but nations and borders are figments, not really there, group agreements in dingbatting human brains, at root stupid and boring; that she lives on the continent, that should be enough.
This time I think she's of age, which she wasn't four years ago, she meets the age-requirement for presidenting that was inscribed in the paper by the men with the wigs who didn't know what was a germ and didn't bathe because they thought it would kill them and who mostly died of diarrhea.
She's four-foot-nine, and I like that, because I think we've had enough of the tall people for a while.
She's a single mother, last time I checked there is no husband, but I mean really, aren't husbands mostly a pain in the pooper? One thing we know for sure is she won't have a wayward or even criminal penis, which has been a problem with the male presidents for, oh, about 250 years or so.
She isn't a lawyer who put people in the prison, or some rapey mobbed-up developer who for some reason has never been in the prison, yet, but is instead a person who learned the whole of the whole from her grandfather, knows the wheel, and who is adept in the skills required to live as a human on this planet: hunting, fishing, trapping, walking, making clothes, fixing things, creating art, throat-singing, knowing where the hell she is at all times, communicating with animals.
Though not all animals can always be communicated with, particularly when their behavior has been posioned by people. And so it was that several years ago she was attacked and mauled, for twenty minutes, in her own home, in front of her children, by a pit bill, unleashed by a manaic, who was peeved that Piugattuk had asked, quite reasonably, why there were all these pit bulls in the village, they're not native, we're only supposed to have native species here, if people have to have the dogs, why can't they have huskies?
Even after the pit bull put a hundred holes in her body, she did not stop asking these questions, which shows she does not "take any guff off the swine," as my brother would say. So, presumably, she would do okay in the swine stampede that is the presidenting.
I first became aware of her in this movie called The Snow Walker; you watch the thing, and you get to the end, and you realize she was probably never Real. But, I mean, who is?
She never meant to be in any movies, they were just filming up there, and her mother said, why don't you go try out, and she thought, why not, and so she did. She's basically just been in the one movie. She has no interest in being a movie star. Just as she has no interest in being the president. Which is a huge factor in her favor right there. She has never expressed any interest in presidenting, and has no idea there is this nutbar, sitting up here in the burned, saying she should be the president, and has been saying so for something like five years now.
I don't know who should be the vice-president, but I'm thinking maybe a raven. I do know that in this one alternate universe I frequent, the vice-president is a maple tree. There, the president is Willie Nelson, who mostly just sits on the porch and plays music for whoever happens to come by. In that universe, the cretin is married to Kim Kardashian; they live quietly in Idaho, where they farm rutabagas. No one but their neighbors knows who they are. They have a couple of grown sons, who run a tractor-supply place down the road. I would run a computer simulation that would overlay that Reality, over the one the 12-year-old boy in the basement is currently running, but I don't know how to run a computer simulation, and also I am older than 12. Mostly.