Black Ted Danson
This was the year when George Bush decided he’d exhausted his creative skills as a white-boy president and he decided to become a black Ted Danson. He decided to become a hormone-chomping woman, or a black Ted Danson, he couldn’t decide. Where oh where had his little dog gone? And who is a genius anyway?
I hate standards and “no child shall be left behind” testing. I hate tests so I will choose a profession that requires no testing, no licensure, no graduate degrees, no unpacking of concepts. I will choose the oldest profession on earth – apple-eating housewife – and the black Ted Danson shall be my husband and we shall live together behind a white picket fence in black-face and I will bake pies and wear aprons and he’ll do shtick at the Friar’s Club or wherever it is that one does shtick, and I’ll have my tubes untied so that I can reproduce again like the 65-year-old woman in Italy and I shall make chicken and dumplings and I’ll do loads of laundry and I’ll make sure everyone has clean underpants and I’ll no longer be a member of Club Foot in the Mouth. I’ll be sweet, considerate, and if I have nothing nice to say, I’ll say nothing at all.
Oh, life back when I walked three miles barefoot in the snow, carrying my lunch pail and a bucket of coal, back in the day when everyone believed in my Georgie, when they believed in his war against terror, his fight for freedom and democracy, when we all believed in all-Indian tech support teams. If only he’d been thinking more clearly then. He wouldn’t have amended the constitution to ban interracial marriages and we could be legally married now that he is the black Ted Danson and I am now the white Donald Trump. The white transsexual Donald Trump.
Oh dear, he also banned marriages between gays. We are doomed, I tell you. He should’ve realized his future desires would fall out of the norm, my delicate little doo-hickey of a man, my Georgie, the Great Creative Mind of the 21st century.
Now I ask you: What
would Jesus do?