Sheltering with the stars

I just walked by the TV my wife was napping to and there was that guy.  Good ole’ That Guy.  I seem to remember him starting a biz and ending up rich enough to buy a basketball team.  I am unaware of the show’s name because I don’t hang around hoping for That Guy’s company.  I didn’t even know he was a star.

I don’t feel one way or another about him; he’s just there, sort of lurking about my life.

He’s not alone.  Oh, the many, many stars we have to guide me.

There are these sisters who are partly fat but mostly semi-naked.  The media presents me with pictures of these fattyboombalaties “sheltering” in front of a luxurious swimming pool.  What can I say?  They’re not my type and they scare me.  They look like bloated couches filled with some gooshy space-age foam that I imagine could drown me in synthetic spume were I to fall on one as she lay supine. 

But there they are in the online newspapers, looming about my life. 

I like documentaries and one can find many on a well-known site.  The political commercials that pop up are horrifying.  There’s this one where this guy, he’s some kind of a doctor, starts shouting bad things about Donald Trump and he doesn’t have much time and his face is all in a rage and he looks like he wants to hit somebody!  Smash somebody!  Take someone’s face off! 

I would never let this madman cross my delicate threshold.  Nonetheless he’s been popping in on me for a couple of days now.  He’s sneaky fast; it’s difficult to “skip ad” his appalling mug before getting a gander at it.  It’s okay if the Democrats want to take a shot at quietly convincing me, but please don’t use this smoldering beast that looks like he wiped out on a 17-foot wave into a three-inch community kiddie pool.

Today the hollowed-out shell of a once-upon-a-time pop star announced she is staging a “quarantine” fashion show.  If a has-been fell off the stage and no one was there would she have to wait until the phenobarbital wore off to locate her vertical hold?

Last week the United Nations released a report claiming that 80 or so odd percent of people worldwide hate woman.  I hope that was a typo or I read it wrong, but it’s the kind of thing that sort of lingers in your planetary and nervous system.  What about the rounded out 50 or so odd percent of people on this good earth who are women?

What are the women going to do about the women who hate women?  Put them in a women’s prison?

So here we have the kind of creepy United Nations, a semi-comatose past tense floozy, just an ape of an emissary for the Democratic Party, Beanie and her pet Sea Serpent lounging on deck chairs, and good ole’ That Guy struggling to get my attention while I’m trying to shelter.

There are all of these dazzling lucky stars who orbit me and form a brilliant firmament to illuminate my dark little life on a black night.

But I don’t want to shelter with the stars.  I want shelter from them.

I just walked by the TV my wife was napping to and there was that guy.  Good ole’ That Guy.  I seem to remember him starting a biz and ending up rich enough to buy a basketball team.  I am unaware of the show’s name because I don’t hang around hoping for That Guy’s company.  I didn’t even know he was a star.

I don’t feel one way or another about him; he’s just there, sort of lurking about my life.

He’s not alone.  Oh, the many, many stars we have to guide me.

There are these sisters who are partly fat but mostly semi-naked.  The media presents me with pictures of these fattyboombalaties “sheltering” in front of a luxurious swimming pool.  What can I say?  They’re not my type and they scare me.  They look like bloated couches filled with some gooshy space-age foam that I imagine could drown me in synthetic spume were I to fall on one as she lay supine. 

But there they are in the online newspapers, looming about my life. 

I like documentaries and one can find many on a well-known site.  The political commercials that pop up are horrifying.  There’s this one where this guy, he’s some kind of a doctor, starts shouting bad things about Donald Trump and he doesn’t have much time and his face is all in a rage and he looks like he wants to hit somebody!  Smash somebody!  Take someone’s face off! 

I would never let this madman cross my delicate threshold.  Nonetheless he’s been popping in on me for a couple of days now.  He’s sneaky fast; it’s difficult to “skip ad” his appalling mug before getting a gander at it.  It’s okay if the Democrats want to take a shot at quietly convincing me, but please don’t use this smoldering beast that looks like he wiped out on a 17-foot wave into a three-inch community kiddie pool.

Today the hollowed-out shell of a once-upon-a-time pop star announced she is staging a “quarantine” fashion show.  If a has-been fell off the stage and no one was there would she have to wait until the phenobarbital wore off to locate her vertical hold?

Last week the United Nations released a report claiming that 80 or so odd percent of people worldwide hate woman.  I hope that was a typo or I read it wrong, but it’s the kind of thing that sort of lingers in your planetary and nervous system.  What about the rounded out 50 or so odd percent of people on this good earth who are women?

What are the women going to do about the women who hate women?  Put them in a women’s prison?

So here we have the kind of creepy United Nations, a semi-comatose past tense floozy, just an ape of an emissary for the Democratic Party, Beanie and her pet Sea Serpent lounging on deck chairs, and good ole’ That Guy struggling to get my attention while I’m trying to shelter.

There are all of these dazzling lucky stars who orbit me and form a brilliant firmament to illuminate my dark little life on a black night.

But I don’t want to shelter with the stars.  I want shelter from them.