Fasten all loose objects

By now, most of us have begun to come to grips with the political apocalypse of last week. The sick feeling in our stomachs (“Trumparrhea” as I diagnosed it) has subsided, and we no longer drag ourselves out of bed asking, “Is it still true?” In fact, many of us are even able to say “President Trump” without going into convulsions.

This is likely true of the president-elect himself, who – let’s be honest – had no more hopes of winning this election than he did one of his beauty pageants.

In other words, we all were blindsided, or “Hillaried” as I’ve taken to calling it. (Feel free to hashtag, as I’m sure it’s going to catch on.) And while some of us awoke Wednesday morning singing “Kumbaya,” many more of us
processed the raw emotions and trauma at different rates and in different ways. Like the Trump hater screaming expletives and lighting off M80s in the street outside my house at 1 a.m. Wednesday morning, or my friend’s septuagenarian mother who dropped the F-bomb for the first time in her life upon hearing the news. (I would just like to add, for the record, I do not condone random violence or vulgarity in any form. Using force or words to demean or intimidate others never solves anything. Unless you’re beating up your opponents or talking about people you don’t like, people of a different skin color, people from a different country, women or just partaking in some harmless “locker room” banter. Then, perfectly acceptable.)

As for myself, I am probably most upset that my “Nov. 8 Pussy Grabs Back” shirt is now relegated to the same heap as the “Cleveland Indians World Series Champs” shirts.

Of course, once the initial shock wore off, and we realized the Canadian immigration site had crashed and there was no hope of getting out that night, many of us began to look on the bright side. Obviously, there will be four more years of SNL skits and a never-ending grist mill for pundits, co- medians and writers. And watching Trump’s political rhetoric is nothing short of sport, sort of like watching a ping pong match between Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide.

Plus, the national upheaval will help take our minds off more pressing local problems, like La Nina, whether Atmos will really ever finish and if the New Smelter will be as good as the Old Smelter.

To wit, already, the economy has seen improvement – after the initial free fall that is. Word is that stocks in both self-tanners and IUDs have gone through the roof. And maybe those Trump University diplomas will be worth something after all (a good thing since we’ve all apparently flunked out of the Electoral College.)

Then there’s all the positive energy a new, young family can bring to the White House. Sleepovers and pillow fights, crank calls to the Clintons, a life-size replica of the Mexican wall built out of Legos. And that’s just Donald and Putin.

It’s a good thing we can see these silver linings. Because let’s face it: losing to a guy whose hair resembles something the cat threw up really sucks. Whether you were part of the pantsuit nation and wanted to see the first female president or simply could not stomach the idea of four years of trying to decide which was worse, the spray hair or spray tan, we all had our reasons to be distraught.

Call me a whiner if you will, it’s just that I expect the leader of the free world to be able to use more eloquent descriptors than “very” and “very, very.” I hear the White House is full of books, perhaps one of them is a thesaurus. Sure, Trump is an admitted nonreader, but maybe he can be tricked into reading it if someone tells him it’s got dirty pictures.

Of course, this shortcoming in the articulation department is nothing compared to the humiliation suffered as the rest of the world gawked on in train wreck fascination. After all, we elected a reality TV star – and not even a good one at that – to the highest office in the land.
I say “we,” because while many of us did not vote for Trump, even if we wrote in Snookie, we’re all in this together. Whether we took him seriously, or as a serious joke, the joke is now on us. (All except the few who still think they actually voted for Alec Baldwin. Just let them live on in blissful ignorance.)

Sure, in hindsight, there were signs, like that Bernie guy and something about a bunch of silly emails. But how were we to guess that apparently, in certain parts of this country, owning one’s own steak company and having a hot mail-order wife is held in such high regard? And who knew the ’80s (The Nuge, Chachi) still held so much sway in certain sec- tors (I’m looking at you, Rust Belters).

Then again, maybe the sudden rise in evil clown attacks right before the election should have tipped us off.
But, as I already pointed out: we’re all aboard the clown car now. And I’ve heard some people argue that wishing for Trump’s demise is like rooting for the pilot of a plane carrying the entire country to fail (although I much prefer the clown car analogy.)

This is true, except, of course, if the pilot happens to be insane or a high-jacker or the flight runs out of free peanuts, in which case you can only pray for enough para- chutes, a Clif bar in your purse and a soft landing.

In the meantime, I will attempt to climb aboard and enjoy the in-flight entertainment. Sure, there may be some turbulence, but who knows? We might even make out with some great frequent flyer awards: cheaper and better health care? Sign me up. Lower taxes, whiter teeth, we all get rich and everyone gets a pony? Yes, please.

Because everyone deserves a chance, including women, Muslims, immigrants, blacks, whites, LGBTQ – and yes, even you, President Trump. (There, I said it. Or at least I wrote it.)

All eyes are on you (we know you love it.) Please, don’t crash America.