Wedding bell joys

A rather brilliant fellow named Rick Wilson used to be a fairly powerful Republican strategist and political consultant. Then, the Republicans morphed into these slimy slithering invertebrate ReTrumplicans, much to Wilson’s horror. As a result, in the last four years, Rick has become a delicious and steady critic of Mr. Mendacious, and, indeed, his book with the prophetic title of Everything Trump Touches Dies became a national best seller. As time goes on, and the gooey horror of the LSOSOTUS (Lying Sack of Shit of the U.S.) gets more and more encaked in the treads of our national Nikes, Wilson’s book title accumulates more and more cred.

Recent casualites include one Tiger Woods, who showed up at the White House to get Trump’s “Brown Person I Actually Sorta Like Because He Golfs Good” award. Well, Tiger showed up, shot the shit with Prez Capone, got his little trinket, and then promptly showed up at the PGA tournament and missed the freakin’ cut. Buh bye, Tiger, and ETTD, dude. Now apparently well on their way to their own professional humiliations are Trump lawyers Jay Sekolow and Abbe Lowell, who have both now been named by Michael Cohen as guys who instructed him to lie to Congress in order to protect their clients Dum Dum and Ivanka. Hey, Jay and Abbe, we’ve got a booth reserved for ya in the ETTD Lounge!

So I just spent a delightful weekend in Palm Springs, giving my lovely daughter away to her super nice man, and I just want you to know that my toast to Catie and Kevin was completely Trump-free! Not a peep about the Putz-In-Chief! Yay, Dad! Hey, I felt the vibe. I grokked the room. It was obvious that to make any mention whatsoever of the current political reality in D.C. would be a massive and totally unnecessary bringdown. Talk about beating a dead damn horse. One of the things I did mention in my schtick was the basic formula for a truly successful wedding reception, that the quality of the affair is directly proportional to the amount of crazy shit that takes place on the dance floor.

And god bless him, the D.J. in charge of the tunes knew how to bring the hotfootin’ heat. Once he recognized that the liquor was taking hold (as all good D.J.s must do), he unleashed a flurry of funky stuff that had even the Old Farts shufflin’, shakin’ and quakin’. If Catie wanted to see Mom and Dad do the Cosmic Slop, she got a serious dose that may just leave her traumatized for quite some time.