On Saturday, I got up early and headed for Eastern Market around 8 a.m., and that was a good idea — got a parking place and got my shopping done before the crowds descended. I took a counter seat at my usual breakfast place, the place already packed. As I was leaving, a party of three was waiting for a table. Working guys, two wearing shirts IDing them as employees of the packing plant around the corner. The third had on a T-shirt with this charming message: Marriages don’t fail. Wives fail.
“I think there’s a table open in the back,” I told them as I left, knowing it was dirty, knowing it was a two-top, but fuck all of them. I know people have different senses of humor, and maybe it was some sort of take-my-wife-please thing, but something about his face said no, he was a Victim of Family Court and That Bitch. So he’ll wear his little shirt around, it makes him feel like he’s stickin’ it to the (wo)man, and he’ll be virtually guaranteed that the next one he falls for will be cut from the same cloth.
I wanted to tell him, “Dude, it’s a loop. You need to break the cycle.” But I didn’t have that kind of time, so I just directed them through a crowded coney island to a dirty table, knowing they’ll have to make their way back when they see it’s too small. I wonder if the other two guys will blame the third guy.
Now I am become Bitch, part of the loop.
The men’s-rights guys are feeling their oats of late. You can hardly go on MR Twitter and not see the sneering at Emmanuel Macron and his old-ass wife, who is quite fetching but undeniably well past her childbearing years, which makes him a cuck or a eunuch or fag or whatever their term of art for such arrangements is.
And you’d get whiplash if you look too quickly at Mike Huckabee, tweeting his pride in his daughter Sarah, deputy White House press secretary:
Daughter @SHSanders45 was prepared for WH press corps; she has 3 pre-schoolers and used to dealing with the same questions over and over.
— Gov. Mike Huckabee (@GovMikeHuckabee) May 13, 2017
Ha ha! Three preschoolers! Wait, what? How is that OK? I spent Kate’s preschool years being lectured endlessly about the need for every child to be raised by their parents, not some nanny or caregiver or what-have-you. Sure, it could be a spouse, but Sarah Huckabee Sanders isn’t married to some cuck, but a man every bit her equal, career-wise.
It’s hard to keep up, I’m telling you. But I know those kids will be lucky to see their mom two hours a day. I believe it was Rahm Emanuel who said that the only parent working in the White House who sees his or her kids is the one in the Oval.
I’m rereading “The Handmaid’s Tale,” as we started a Hulu subscription to watch the adaptation. Very well done, very specifically scary. I try not to get too paranoid these days, but face it, as the dug-in positions keep getting more dug in, it’s hard to be optimistic:
The talk-show host Rush Limbaugh was positively giddy, opening his monologue on Wednesday by praising Mr. Trump for what he called his “epic trolling” of liberals. “This is great,” Mr. Limbaugh declared. “Can we agree that Donald Trump is probably enjoying this more than anybody wants to admit or that anybody knows? So he fires Comey yesterday. Who’s he meet with today? He’s meeting with the Soviet, the Russian foreign minister, Sergey Lavrov! I mean, what an epic troll this is.”
Given the enthusiasm of the president’s apologists, it is likely that much of Mr. Trump’s base will similarly rally to him as it has in the past.
But perhaps most important, we saw once again how conservatism, with its belief in ordered liberty, is being eclipsed by something different: Loathing those who loathe the president. Rabid anti-anti-Trumpism.
I guess, when the president’s health fails because of his shitty diet, that will be another case of IOKIYAR. We won’t be helping children learn to eat better, either, because that was Michelle Obama’s idea, and anyway, parents should be teaching their children, like the Huckabee-Sanders co-prosperity sphere (with a bloodline strong in Southern-style obesity).
Speaking of whiplash.
I have a bunch of depressing links to post, but I’m not going to. It’s a beautiful Mothers Day, my daughter has promised to make me dinner later, and I’m going for a bike ride. And if you’re reading this Monday, happy anniversary to us. Twenty-four years, celebrated Saturday night with a restaurant meal that made this dress feel tighter than it looks by the last bite:
Good week, all.