Sources close to the presidential candidate claim that Trump’s problem with CNN and FOX is “they’re morons.” In an effort to be represented in the most honest and fair light, it is reported that Trump has just bought his own network: Trump That Media.
Donald Trump blames his slide in the polls on the “clowns” at the networks who are “not telling the truth. They’re a bunch of losers. I don’t want to use the word liars, but if it wasn’t for those liars, I wouldn’t have to buy my own network.” read more
By the way, may I call you that? Pigs? It’s meant with the utmost respect, and after all, it is your name. Believe me, pig. I’ve never used your name in vain when referring to perverts or sleazeballs. I don’t know who started that. Uncool. Nor have I ever said, “Go clean up, you filthy pig!” to either of my kids or my husband. Even that time when they were so foul I wouldn’t let them in the house without hosing off in the backyard first. I’ve read that elephants and rhinos are much dirtier than pigs, but the dirtiest of all, obviously, is the dung beetle. Just so you know, whenever possible I do correct people by saying, “Go clean up, you filthy dung beetle!”
Okay, that’s not why I’m writing you. I need to talk to you about the state of pigs. Read more on the Huffington Post:
Winter drags its massive lumbering heels on its way to meet Spring. Its hair has grown long, its thick woolly layers are tattered and dirty. Spring should be close, should be here, but it’s impossible to see. Not with Winter’s defiant air—harsh and billowing, relentless—it bullies the sweet, green Spring away.
Winter fingers the baton tight in its grasp. Teasing. Torturing. It curls its grip narrower while its gate is weighed down with spite and beef stew. In the thick of Winter are roasts and chowders. Noodles and gratins soothe the deepest darkest cold. Desserts piled high with whipped cream, warm pies, chortle at Spring. Arrogant. Impudent. As though they’ll never meet. Layers of comfort expand under Winter’s heavy coats; then Winter’s promise goes cold. Threatening to turn its shoulder on Spring. Snuff it with one gruff callused hand. Groaning, moaning. Solace is taken in crackling fires and down blankets, cassoulets and buttered biscuits.
Then, out of the grey—without the slightest hint—while deep in slumber, a bird appears. On the sill of Spring. A song in its breast. Feathers flitting in a sliver of sun. Spring has arrived! In a wink. With every color. The brightest clearest sounds. Warm air. Wool lies in puddles on the floor. But Winter has left souvenirs. What to do with those now?
Nestled peacefully under my comforter, I heard my bedroom door swoosh open with a sense of urgency. A second later, inches from my head, I heard, “Honey!” It was my husband’s aggressive whisper. The kind that’s meant to be in a hushed tone but comes out louder than a normal speaking voice.
I was in that perfectly-aligned-body-parts guaranteed-deep-glorious-sleep position. My limbs were at the melting-into-the-mattress stage. My mind was not far behind my body, already in a half-doze. The timing was crucial. I couldn’t move a muscle, lest I wake myself up. That included my mouth. Responding to my husband would be limited. A grunt was all I could offer.
He took the grunt as a sign to converse. “There’s a parental lock on one of the TV channels. What’s that about? When did we have a parental lock? What’s the code?” continue reading