So America Chose a Crazy Partner, Who Hasn’t?

So we bedded down with a nut job with crazy hair who promised us the moon. Totally sounds like my love life in the late 1980’s. We threw it all away, bet it all on black and now found ourselves vomiting in the well apportioned toilet of a rich guy we met at happy hour at a local Cheddar’s. It may feel like the end of the world but it isn’t. Pass out for the night then gather up your long discarded black tights and find your car keys for the long, confusing the walk of shame.

Anyone who enjoyed clubbing in the late 80’s knows that occasionally some old guy shows up with a lot of cash and and a smile and you know he’s bad news but it’s a total buzz kill to think about why. So you follow him. Sometimes a guy shows up in white cowboy boots and tucks his acid washed jeans into them and you just know you’re going to end up in the front seat of a Pontiac Fiero with him but you go. These guys play backgammon and name drop and buy the Wall Street Journal and they’re horrible people. You sleep with them anyway.

These men are 12 times more insecure than you are they end up accidentally running into you at the restaurant you met in (which also happens to be where you work) and act like they haven’t been stalking you for days. You will not like them and be slightly creeped out that they have nothing better to do than stalk a hostess at a mildly sleazy restaurant but you know a way to get rid of them. You take them to the gay bar. Not the lesbian bar but the gay guy bar. You dance like a maniac and kiss the bartender and rub your freedom in his smug, rich face.

They never come back to see you, you are fine.

This Trump thing, this is the Fiero guy. You know that he is bad but he’s so broken. He likes you for all of the wrong reasons. You want to find his better part, but it’s buried under layers and layers of Drakkar Noir and under that is a layer of Polo and that stuff won’t wash.

Right now, I feel like American’s are doing their walk of shame with Trump. And your claim that “I didn’t vote for him…” doesn’t help. It’s 7am on a Saturday and they will start towing cars at 8:30. Considering you don’t remember if you’re parked on 11th or 12th, you had better get busy and find your car.

It’s time to go home, take a cleansing shower, maybe a morning after pill, and sober up. Quit dignifying the white cowboy boots guy, America. I did.

 

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