humor · life

russians, recount, the electoral college

Anyone with a grain of sense is searching for a loophole in the 2016 election, any viable excuse to nullify a Trump presidency. With good reason; his election will be a yuuuge worldwide disaster. America, as ground zero, may need decades to repair the damage he’s set to cause. And I don’t think I’m overstating.

According to my careful, highly unscientific calculations, Trump and his administration will be the equivalent of a 7.8 ± earthquake. Widespread destruction.

So, sure, let’s find way around him. Fortunately, the Russians with their hacking and fake-news propaganda, provided us with an ideal pretext — such covert meddling deserves investigation. A recount is currently underway in Wisconsin, with others expected to follow in Pennsylvania and Michigan; states Trump won by a margin of ± one point .

Failing that, many are urging electors to deny Trump the 270 votes he needs when the electoral college convenes on December 19th. Their reasoning? He’s unfit to serve as President of these United States. Well, duh. He’s typically described, in less than glowing terms, as kleptocrat, misogynist, dangerous, racist, fraudulent, bigoted, reckless, and hair-obsessed.

Personally, I’m heartened by the disgust and outrage. It’s proof decent, ethical, thinking Americans do exist. Even so, I’m afraid a Trump presidency is inevitable. And probably safer, too, at least in the short-term. Imagine the backlash if that nutjob was denied office. His supporters, the overlooked caveman demographic, would burn the country to the ground — from sea to shining sea.

copyright © 2016 little ittys

humor · life

I’m really, really high

And will be for the rest of my natural life, because the thought of moving again is just too terrible to contemplate. Besides, the view is much better up here. You see, my new apartment is on the eleventh floor, roughly 110 feet straight up — assuming the average floor is a conservative ten feet tall. That’s flipping high.

And guess what: I’m afraid of heights. A little fact I tend to forget since I rarely climb trees anymore. Or peer over the edge of skyscrapers. I’m fine indoors, looking out at the impressive panorama of the city. Outside, on the balcony, is a dicier proposition. I get queasy and panicky, recoiling almost violently.

Even watching television or a movie, I react to great heights. Especially when the camera shoots straight down the side of a building, I can’t look. My stomach does somersaults and I snap backwards as if I’m the one falling. There’s a term for this, it’s called acrophobia, an extreme or irrational fear of heights. Lucky me, I suffer both — the extreme and completely irrational.

But it’s small potatoes, a price I’m happy to pay after the caterwauling of the neighbors above me. The ones with thundering footsteps; the ones who made the ceiling joists scream and groan, pop and splinter around the clock. Heck, at this height, I can barely hear the traffic, just the sigh of the wind and the occasional flutter of bird wings.

It is, and I’m not overstating, heaven on earth.

I’m able to maintain a thought, focus on things, read, sleep, and finally, finally unclench. Quiet is such a sweet, wondrous thing. Plus, the new place is bright and open, spacious, sparkling clean, and, best of all, there’s a heat lamp in the bathroom. Score! So guess where I’ll be spending the winter. Yep, the bathroom. I’ll get a beach chair and bask in the warmth with a cold drink and a big, long book.

You know, life is awesome when you’re this high.


copyright © 2016 little ittys

humor · life


   Just when you think politics can’t possibly sink any lower, here come the backhoes. Craven depravity, we’re learning, is bottomless.

So while politicians are busy embarrassing themselves and the entire effing country, let’s ignore them. They won’t go away, but we needn’t give them an audience, either. Try this, instead:

Feel better? You should, an occasional laugh is very beneficial to your mental health. Now go buy some earplugs and hum a show tune until, oh, 2036.

copyright © 2016 the whirly girl

humor · life

the new shoehorns

I’m not opposed to wealth. I’m not even opposed to conspicuous consumption. What I am opposed to is tastelessness; it’s an assault on the senses.

McMansions, for instance, are a blight on the landscape — well, what landscape? Those structures are built within centimeters of lot lines. Owners could mow their lawn with cuticle scissors, except they won’t stoop to yard work. So I’ll rephrase: a manicurist could cut the grass with cuticle scissors. The houses, meanwhile, are clustered so tightly together residents could lean out a window and shake hands with the neighbor. On each side.

I thought money was supposed to buy space, acres and acres of privacy behind hedges and gates and sniffy exclusivity. I was mistaken. Wealth is on ostentatious display in alarming and garish ways. I want it to go back to being tucked away in dignified elegance and suitably classy surroundings. But that could be the problem. Tony addresses are highly desirable and space is necessarily limited.

That doesn’t stop pretentious climbers, though, close is good enough for them. They troll around, buy a lovely home on the fringes, bulldoze it, and build a ghastly, towering monstrosity that stands out like a pituitary case. All that’s lacking is neon. It’s shameful.

Instead of looking noble and imposing and grand, they look like misfits or mausoleums. Pretentious misfits, at that. They aren’t homes, they’re freestanding inferiority complexes — monumental Donald Trumps. And we need them like a hole in the head. A return to our senses, that’s what we need.


copyright © 2016 little ittys