Q: What’s your deal? Why are you so pissed off?
Q: Politics? Want to be anymore specific?
A: Sure. The incredible proliferation of assholes. Like mildew on a wet shirt left on the basement floor. Every time you turn around, there’s another little dot. Like fucking cancer.
Q: You seem pretty irritated.
A: Is that a therapeutic thing you learned somewhere? Actually, what you’re supposed to say, or at least what I was taught was, “what I hear you saying is that you feel there is a proliferation of assholes.” If you’re going to placate me, at least do it by the book.
Q: Okay. I apologize for that.
A. Great. A quick apology is always appreciated. But it would be better if you could bleed on the page a little bit, confess to using drugs or having a blackout, jazz it up a little bit. You can’t just make a mistake and say you’re sorry. No go, Mr. Blow.
Q: You are really touchy. What’s the biggest thing bothering you, realizing that there seems to be a pretty long list.
A: That no one is calling Donald Trump a fucking madman.
Q: And who should be doing that?
A: Seriously? Everyone.
A: Yes. The other Republican candidates are talking about him like he belched at the dining room table. Oh dear. Trump’s created an environment where everyone thinks it’s okay to belch at the dining room table. He’s a fucking madman. People need to start saying that.
Q: I think the other candidates might be trying to hedge their bets.
A: Really? That’s your analysis? Here’s my analysis. They’re idiots.
Q: What do you think that Cruz and Rubio and Kasich should do?
A: Go apeshit. Try to get Trump charged with disturbing the peace. Sue the networks for equal time. Turn their backs on him at the next debate or group photo op. Accuse him of consorting with sheep. I don’t care. No, that’s not right. I do care. They need to be madder.
Q: You’re pretty steamed. Are you going to be able to sleep tonight?
A: I don’t know. Maybe I’ll count Trump’s sheep.