Crown They Good, yadda yadda, Motherhood, yo

This morning, I received a divine spam:

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It's like removing =
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a watermelon-size bowl of =
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lard from my body =
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The equal signs puzzle me. I have to go to the desert and meditate, now. Seven days of fasting. Ten drops of water. But meanwhile, you must consider that the recent events surrounding the presidential election could be more evidence, simply, of the end of American Empire. Do we want a leader who could possibly inspire us to rise to a better plane? Do we want to continue this happy experiment in democracy and free markets? Or do we want the guy with the Budweiser twin beer can hat and the Down Syndrome baby and the *hot* GILF whose teenage daughter's horny shennanigans only serve to make, well, hotter. I mean. Fertile. C'mon. And frisky. All of 'em. Hockey mom.

Isn't hockey a Canadian game?

We are not the bright shining beacon in the darkness that Franklin and Jefferson and Adams believed we could be.

We are the ignorant, marginalized refugees held back from savagery by belief in a terrifying and vindictive God, who dig sod houses out of muddy embankments and eat the mule when the crops fail because we don't know anything about farming and then celebrate as heroic our plucky refusal to die.

You can't win this national argument because there is no argument. There is only the certainty of Faith. All logic succumbs to it, all hope and progress is abandoned for it.

I'm waiting for the episode of Extreme Makeover where they take the Down Syndrome kid and cut him and shape him and fix his teeth and make him look like Marky Mark. And then have him win Survivor. And then bare all in a special episode of Intervention.

And then we can elect him President.

Woo hoo.