The Skeeter Daddle Diaries

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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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