Just Me Being Me

Even before Kevin Spacey’s name …

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… was added to that (growing) list of powerful men who chose to behave like rutting swine with women—or in Spacey’s case, not women—I had planned on writing, someday, a complaint that far too many news media personalities were showing up on House of Cards, playing themselves, names unchanged, as news media personalities. I came to House of Cards series at least four years late. I don’t binge watch anything, but I do pick out teevee series I have heard a lot about but not seen, and go through them one at a time, season by season, episode by episode, a few minutes a night until I am caught up. So, I wasn’t even aware of this confluence of fictional politics with actual reporters until this last summer. And it disturbed me. For the likes of Chris Matthews (Candy Crowley, John King, Morley Safer, Rachel Maddow,  Chris Hayes, et al.) to be in the current political climate battling the largely contrived specter of  “fake news” in defense of their chosen, and vital, profession, then appear in a fiction television show as themselves, fictionally reporting on fictional plot developments? … why, that is as clear a definition of “fake news” as I can imagine.

Obviously, intelligent viewers are able to distinguish between what is actual reporting in those peoples’ actual jobs, and a 60-second cameo on a political soap like H of C, interviewing President Frank Underwood or his wife Claire. But it’s not the intelligent viewers I am worried about. It is the other viewers. You know, the ones who could be called “intelligent” only in contrast to shrubs, rocks, and Alex Jones.

So, that is what I intended for today’s blogging: a plea to real reporters and anchors and journalists to stop taking part in not real television and movie productions, because they were just confusing even further an already confused situation, especially among easily-confused Americans.

But in researching just how many news personalities have gotten their familiar mugs on House of Cards, and who they are, going all the way back to the show’s premier in 2013, I found no shortage of opinions saying the exact same thing I intended to say. I fucking hate that. Pisses me off no end that so many other opinion writers so often think the same thing I do, and then beat me to saying it.

But … whatever.  They did get there first, and I refuse to be one of those writers who simply regurgitate what others have already thoroughly chewed. Which often leaves me scrambling for Idea # 2, sometimes #3 or #4, on which to put my efforts. In today’s case, Idea #2 is founded on something I see increasingly on the Internet—being: There is a number of contributors who are writing stuff, and posting pictures and quotes and opinions and all sorts of other stuff, seemingly designed for the sole purpose of enraging the punk bum we all hope is in prison by this time next year, along with his Vice President, Cabinet and entire family, except for maybe Barron … maybe.

You’ve seen the sort of stuff I mean, I’m sure. Photos of the incomparable Obama behaving like the man Trump could never, ever, not-in-a-zillion-years be. Photos of the gallery of women who have come out with accusations of sexual impropriety against the degenerate scuzz. Graphs and charts and statistics that illustrate what an incompetent loser he is, on all fronts and in all ways. And, of course, photos of the flabby, ugly, sloppy, disgusting specimen he is, looking like a hippo in white casual-wear, swinging a golf club. Looking like some as-yet undiscovered, feces-eating ape going through an emotional breakdown. Looking like the sort of man who could not possibly get laid were there not a plethora of prostitutes in the world.

I am okay with this. After all, his sole purpose on Earth seems to be to keep me in a perpetual state of rage. And he’s good at it … if nothing else. So when it comes to this prick, I say let the trolling roll. And anyway, it’s not like anything I’ve seen wasn’t true.

In fact, I’d like to join the pitchfork mob. And since I’ve had to abandon my first choice for today’s topic, I have time. My contribution to the flood of deserved disrespect and justifiable abuse has to do the paternity of Trump’s (alleged) children. My wife thinks they all look too much like him to not be his, but I’m not convinced. Nor do I believe it unreasonable—since the spawn are so deeply involved in his administration on no more justification than nobody but family can stand to be in his presence for more than a few minutes—that they all take paternity tests, publically, to determine if they are, indeed, his off-spring and entitled to all that nepotism they’ve had coming their way.

I tell you, if enough of us join together to demand he produces some verifiable DNA results, he cannot help but be enraged. And we all know how fun it can get when he loses his shit, right?

I suggest we call ourselves “Birth Daddies.” We’ll know it’s paying off when he starts to Tweet about us—e.g., “These loser Birth Daddies don’t think I can knock up my own wife (wives). Sad. Don’t know why this is allowed in our great country.”

And with enough of that sort of thing, maybe we can get a guest spot on Rachael’s show. Or 60 Minutes. Or Hardball with Chris Matthews.  I’d be more than happy to be the national spokesperson. I could dress up like myself and say exactly the same things I would say if I were on a television news program acting as a national spokesperson.

Man, it’s too bad about House of Cards getting cancelled. With a little luck, I might have gotten a cameo on that show, playing the role of myself. If only Spacey could keep his fucking hands to himself, huh?

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