The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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It took awhile, but it was an entertaining wait. If you’re waiting for that high minded, let’s get behind the newly elected president, concession speech, you’ve got an even longer wait. Inside the Ovoid Office, furniture is being smashed, aides are being trashed, and believe it, tongues are being lashed too. There is no going gentle into any good night for this spoiled brat. The chessboard has been overturned, the lawsuits filed, the sychophants lined up to agree that the election was rigged, ballots were faked, the dead voted and those mail-in ballots were illegal.

What did you expect? Well wishes for the country? A call for unity? High minded speeches? C’mon, the guy is a thug, a crime boss. He’s thinking about revenge, he’s looking for a club, he’s talking tough with Rudy, he’s crying foul on the phone to Fox News. He’s using a ball bat to smash Obama’s painting down the hall. The Trump Tantrum Show, ladies and gentlemen, is just on the pilot program. We have two more months to witness the greatest meltdown in U.S. history, greater than the Nixon drunken prayer meetings with Henry call me Hank Kissinger. This should be epic. Heads will fall, windows will be broken, bad craziness will be the order of the day. You think he’s leaving that White House without being dragged out of there, you weren’t paying attention the last four years. This petulant little man is stewing in his own ego.

How do exact revenge on the millions of people who voted against him? Oh, bet your stimulus check on it, he’s working on it. Grinding teeth, spitting obscenities, scaring the staff. Who’s got the nuclear football, they’re probably wondering. Who’s going to put the strait jacket on this foaming mouthed monster? Kellyanne? Mikey Pence? They’re hiding in the coat closet, hoping to survive two more months without insult or injury. Good luck, gang.

They know what he’s thinking. Once he’s deposed, the IRS and the federal courts are coming with subpoenas. The fines and penalties may scare him more than possible incarceration. The Wizard of Odd may very well be broke. He certainly won’t have fine clothes on behind the suddenly pulled back curtain. Just a naked jaybird. And very possibly a naked jailbird. No, don’t expect him to leave without a hook and a chain.

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Oh yeah, the suspense is killing me, waiting for one of the last four states in play to declare Sleepy J the winner. Half my friends want it decided, verdict in, guilty as charged, but me, I’m in no hurry. The man is pacing his Ovoid Office like an amphetamine monkey, raging, tweeting, chewing on his 500 dollar tie. His minions are out in the hinterlands like the Wicked Witch’s flying apes, filing lawsuits, asking for recounts, asking for the counts to stop, demanding the counts continue. This is a full on mental meltdown of a 5 year old brat.

I’m surprised anyone is surprised Trump isn’t going into that good night gently. He pretty much telegraphed the game plan the last few months. But I bet like the first time four years ago, he was shocked to be this close and that must be a tough horse pill to swallow this time, so close … and yet so far. At first I hated the suspense of waiting for the finale, now I’m enjoying watching the noose tighten. Georgia! Who’d a thunk it? I bet Stacey Abrams is going to be offered a nice cabinet post for a reward. She deserves it.

Nice to see the Trump boyz becoming the spokesmen for their daddy. The nuts don’t fall far from the tree. The longer this goes on, the more I’m starting to enjoy the suspense, let him swing in the wind and feel the noose tighten every hour, every day, every ballot drop. Pig on a spit. Hear him sizzlin on that grill, y’all!

I say recount every state, lob a thousand duds into the court gears, cry me a river, let the pigs squeal to their dirty black hearts’ content, I’m going to savor my victory beers as long as it takes. Jan 20th, we get a D-9 in front of the White House and drag his sorry ass out of my life. He can have his new Trump Network, let Eric and Don Jr and Barbie have a half hour slot, but I don’t have to watch anymore. My national nightmare is over, fini, done. Ding dong, the witch is dead.

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Four years ago we had an election party here at the hacienda, about 4 dozen or so friends gathered to watch Hillary Clinton be crowned queen of America. Things were going swell, toasts made, food eaten, drinks flowing … until about an hour into a news broadcast that predicted Florida voted Trump, then most of the Deep South and finally the Rust Belt. People left in droves and quite a few left in tears. Trust me, we swore we would never have another election party so help us god.

Fast forward what seems like a lifetime, those four years of Donald J. Trump, the man who has a pathological need to inject himself into our daily lives the way Covid did three years later. Every damn day was another round of Trump, every news feed was more Trump, every social media platform was Trump and Trump and in case you were looking for another helping, Trump. Those four years seem like an eternity in the rearview.

The pollsters, just like they did in 2016, predicted a landslide, a blue tsunami, a massacre. And just like 2016, they were absolutely wrong. By midnight the election was a virtual dead heat and we were dead on our feet, muttering incoherently as we shuffled off to our sleepless bed depressed and angry and considering emigration to some far off land. The Senate was back in the hands of Moscow Mitch and Trump was calling for the voting to stop, he’d already won.

Yesterday, the day after, he was declaring victory but demanding vote counting stop in Pennsylvania and demanding vote counting continue in Nevada and Arizona. Logical coherency is not one of the President’s many virtues and whether this is what half the country loves about the man, all I can honestly say is after four years of him I have no idea what people love about this narcissistic huckster. Business acumen? Christian ideals? Well considered policies? Family values? Honesty? Nice hair?

Today the country and the world are waiting on the last states left to finish their tally. Any one that falls into Sleepy Joe’s box means the end of Donald J. Trump’s presidency. My long national nightmare will be over, to quote Gerald Ford regarding Watergate and the Nixon near impeachment. No doubt in my mind whatsoever we won’t see the man slink quietly into the shadows. Fox will set him up with a news show or he’ll start his own network, let him rant to his heart’s content. Trust me, we haven’t seen the last of this snake oil salesman.

But … he will no longer be the bull in the White House china shop. What the next four years bring, your guess is good as mine. Still, half of us are ready for some sanity.

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Every year the editorial staff of the Crab Cracker comes to me and asks why don’t we run a South End Man and Woman of the Year? Mary Jo Permkowski begs them to run that contest so she can win South End Businesswoman of the Year for her Pedicure Salon, Mo-Toe Mojo. She figures she’s practically the only business left on the South End, a virtual shoe-in, she thinks, assuming South End Greenworks, Two Toke Tom’s semi-legal cannabis dispensary isn’t considered a legitimate candidate. Mary Jo’s kidding herself — Two Toke probably would win Man AND Business of the Year both.

I tell them let Stanwoodopolis run their little contest. High School’s over down here. We don’t elect Prom King and Queen — none of us were the captain of the football team or the most sexually active cheerleader. We know how the Game is rigged. And not just Yokel of the Year —- I mean the Big Game. Why do you think we live down here? To win popularity contests? Or to escape em …?

Oh, I suppose we could run our own easy enough. Best Moonshiner. Best Gyppo. Best Nettle Farmer. Best Hydroponic Cannabis Cultivator. Best Trailer Court. Best Old Hippie. Best Dandelion Show Garden. Best Poacher. Best Meth Lab. Best Rehabbed Felon. Best E-Bay saleswoman. Best Illegal Crabber. Best Friend of Colton Harris Moore. Best Glass Artist Who Plays Banjo and Writes Articles for the Crab Cracker.

But NO! we’re not gonna stoop to that. If all we wanted were a pack of sycophantic friends to vote us their favorite yokel or their best underground business, we’d sign up for Facebook and get all our neighbors to “Like” us. Probably mostly end up with hits from the FBI or the IRS anyway. No sir, let the popularity voting go on without us another year. We may not be the cutest or the most athletic or the smartest or the friendliest, we may not have a South End Fan Club or 2 zillion connections on Linked-In, we may not get invited to those catered North End soirees for the rich and famous winners of last year’s People of the Year, but we’ll just struggle on. And Betty Jo — you didn’t have an atheist’s prayer against Two Toke anyway, I don’t care how promiscuous you are.

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Big Walter had a black plague mask with white words printed on it that said This Mask Is As Worthless As My Government. He had it pulled down so it only covered his mouth and not his nose, his idea of a personal protest. He and the Trump Boosters were sitting in the corner of the South End Marina’s Pilot Lounge, lately Revolution Central for the hotheads who come to congregate after a hard day of driving their 4×4’s up and down the island with their political signs and their semi-automatics in full view, no doubt a reminder to the rest of us commies that the day was coming when they would exercise their 2nd amendment rights if we won the election.

Little Jimmy was wondering loudly if maybe they should go down Tuesday and guard the polling station against ‘outside agitators’. Fairlane Fred was on his 3rd White Russian, an irony that apparently escaped his attention when he opined that the ‘Russkies’ were definitely trying to put their ‘finger on the scale’ for Biden and it might be time for an ‘intervention’ down at the polls. He’d heard on social media they would be there in force to coerce the voters.

“Hell yes they’ll try to intimidate the sheep!” Big Walter shouted as he tore off his mask, casting a wary eye toward Leonard, the new weekend bartender who only shook his head slightly and turned to a customer down the bar. That customer would be me. Two Toke sat an extra stool away, social distance in this Year of the Plague. “We’ll take some personnel down there and make sure things are on the up and up,” Walt declared.

“I’m in, Walt, count me in!” Little Jimmy declared resolutely. Fred and Jerry volunteered too. Two Toke chuckled. “Looks like we got ourselves an army in search of a war.”

Walter scowled and said if Two Toke Tom wanted a war, he’d gladly give him one. “My point exactly, Walter,” TT said and laughed.

Little Jimmy wanted to know what time they should show up and Fred said when the damn polling station opens up and Jerry asked where was the damn polling station anyway. This cracked Two Toke up. “Leonard,” he said, “give these vigilantes directions to the war, they’re short a GPS.” Leonard, despite being new to the job, stayed diplomatically out of this, just kept drying beer pints with a towel and putting them on the rack below the bar.

“That’s right, go ahead and laugh, Bernie Boy,” Walter growled, his mask on the table, definitely worthless now. “But when America turns socialist, you won’t be smiling anymore and that, my leftist friend, is a fact.”

“Walt, you wouldn’t know a fact if it ran you over with your own truck. But hey, I’m totally okay with you boys patrolling the polling station. Really, I am,” Tom said amiably. “ More power to you, more power to the people. I’d even go with you. You know, if I had a gun, but being a peacenik and all, I don’t. “

“Sure you would, Tom, sure you would,” Big Walter said, shaking his head sadly.

“I would, Walt, sure as you believe in facts, I would. Tell me what time to show up, maybe I’ll join the militia.”

“Leonard,” I said, “give these patriots a round on me. And Thomas here too. I think we’ve found some unity at last in these divided times.” And so, a few days before the election, we all drank a good will toast to an honest vote, long live the queen. Two Toke and I left together and neither of us told the boys our state was strictly mail-in ballots, no more polling stations to guard.

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