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For many, many lonnnng years now, New Yorkers, fellow East Coasters, and anyone else with an ounce of real intellectualism in their brains have suffered through election time with excruciating patience. I'm not talking about our crucial and highly developed system of "checks and balances"* either, although you should definitely know about the concept, in case you skipped that class in school.
No, we are talking about a surreal horror/freak-show that has produced candidates who are afraid of seeing the Russian landmass from their doorstep in America, or losing her freedom to shoot down endangered wolves running in fear from the safety of her rich white helicopter, while preaching about teenage abstinence ("See the 'Virginity' bracelet on my wrist, here?").
Wait, there's more! Her then-teenage daughter gets knocked up out of wedlock (which is up to two times and counting, in 2015), then said-candidate goes on national television to openly oppose birth control for women, so she can give a late-in-life birth to her beloved Down Syndrome baby, who we, the taxpayers, will almost surely support all of his extremely-challenged life.
Makes sense, right? NO?! Well, fuck you, it doesn't to me either!
That is why the great city, state, and people of New York have tacitly applauded Donald Trump's bid in the race, with all of his "FUCK YOU!" money: as a payback to y'all, for all the weirdo shit we've had to endure for so long. I promise you, each media soundbite from him and overly graphic stage-set design will be stranger than the last, until someone stops him in his own party.
But, I wouldn't hold my breath, if I were you. And why is that? So great of you to ask! He's the number one candidate in the recent polls. Enjoy, America! I AM NEW YORK, AND NOW SO ARE ALL OF YOU.
When I was a kid, I once complained to my mom about boredom during a particularly slow summer, because I grew up with kids who weren't exactly on my level, which always left me wondering what to do next. Naturally, I developed an enormous amount of entertainments while alone. In response to my "whining", my mom ordered me to the basement for a big, white, plastic bucket to pick out every dandelion in the backyard with my little next door neighbor, because she didn't want "weeds" in "her" lawn. She would also suggest we do laundry, wash dishes, fold clothes, and other horrors when we hinted at boredom, so I learned industrious, productive habits early on.
We did that for awhile, then became actually bored, after exhausting every avenue available to us through this venue: we decorated ourselves with flower crowns and garlands, then went indoors and pretended to be Greek Goddesses, wrapping ourselves in bedsheets, giggling in the guest bedroom downstairs, doing playacting that I sourced from the books on the shelf. Finally my mom came downstairs to see what all the commotion was about, to find me and my friend jumping up and down on the bed, grabbing each other when we fell down, laughing over the stupid romantic phrases adults used in soap operas, like "Darling, I'm yours!", pretending all the world was a stage.
I still do that, and I still appreciate a really nice yard, even ones with hundreds of wildflowers one might consider a "weed" in passing, as I still love hammy, over-dramatic, bad acting for sport; life lessons learned in childhood, now made into art. Such is the life.
