The Pope is coming to Manhattan and we don’t have congestion pricing. It’s going to be hell.
I can’t focus on the news, but near as I can figure The Widow Ratzinger is carrying an Olympic torch for Cardinal Egan of the Diocese of New York. He’s come a-courtin! Antiques Roadshow says it’s the original torch! Benny the Dict will be saying a mass at St. Patrick’s Cathedral and at Yankee Stadium. Cardinal Egan will throw out the first host.
Though I used to be a conscientious Designated Bush Watcher, these days I watch the news distractedly. I don’t think I’m alone. The New York Times has accommodated by becoming news Cliff Notes. I’m dissociative. I pretend that HBO’s John Adams is the breaking news. I went to the very helpful WhatTheHellisWrongwithMe website and self-diagnosed what ails me. I believe I have early onset PBTSD, Post-Bush-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
My presenting symptoms of lethargy, distraction and dissociation are compounded by Clinton Fatigue. And I am one. What IS Hillary Clinton’s sleep number? I’m tired for her. But why does she have to have an exit strategy and Petraeus doesn’t?
I have a wicked case of Oblahblahma Cynicism which prevents me from seeing the magic of another guy with no experience, known for his talking skills, good or bad. He weenied out with timetable babble when questioning Petraeus.
With my PBTSD, I wouldn’t know a revolution of the human spirit if I fell over one. No, I can’t. I can’t stomach another story of pathetic boomer parents bonding with their darling children by taking cooking classes, snowboarding and switching from Clinton to Obama. Yet another reason not to have children.
With a pre-existing condition of Pre-Collision Intelligence, I have profound disbelief that the disaster that is John McCain is an actual presidential contender. Two words: George Bush. How can Republicans say that they will vote their pocketbook, which has been so thoroughly picked?
At night I am plagued by rational fears that Condi Rice is going to spring fully formed as a vice-presidential running mate out of the giant wen on McCain’s cheek.
Condi’s been giving signals that he hasn’t been picking up – there’s a great start. McCain’s wife, Republican Spice, has been scrambling them and will snap Condi’s neck if she gets an inch closer.
Instead of going to therapy, I’ve been watching HBO’s In Treatment with Gabriel Byrne and my favorite, Dianne Wiest. Not really. I can’t watch. I’m too restless, but my friends who watch say he never discusses insurance coverage, co-pay or prescription prices. Or that hour sessions are fifty minutes long.