Go White Boy, It’s Your Birthday

I’m glad to see that Barry took my advice and picked an old white guy to be his running mate.

Actually, he didn’t totally do it up: Joe Biden is only 65 and what I wanted was an ossified old fuck from Georgia or something. And also not Tim Kaine, in case I need to have an abortion. (Before you flame me, yes, yes, I know that he claims his opposition is “faith-based” and that he would never overturn Roe v. Wade. I claim that he’s a big fat liar and until NARAL tells me differently, he can suck it. Even then, maybe he can still suck it.)

Many of my friends were upset that he didn’t pick a lady, or someone from a bigger state, but all I want, please baby Jesus, is not to have McCain as my next president. Please, I’m begging you. I can still remember watching the 2000 election in the Model Cafe in Allston, Massachusetts and thinking, “I will be 32 years old before there’s another Democrat in office.”

Of course, by then I assumed I would be dead by such an advanced age, or at least retired and living in Boca Raton. Now, of course, I know that such a think won’t happen until I’m at least 50. (Using my magical powers, I can assure you that in 18 years time, I will have moved that number forward to 83.)


Being Dumped Is a Talent

Me: OK, listen: If that’s the way you feel about it, I’m only going to ask you for one thing.

Him: Anything.

Me: A year from now, when you realize you’ve made the BIGGEST MISTAKE OF YOUR LIFE, promise me you’ll call me. I’ll put you on speaker. From my new boyfriend’s bed.

This actually passes as maturity for me.