(I have vowed to stay away from the social-media political feeding frenzy. I swear, after today, my interactions on Facebook will be about innocuous things like food, birds and gardening.
But today...today was a day I needed to check in a few times, just to balance out the surrealism of yesterday. The women were out and about today...all over the country...all over the world. I'm with them in spirit.)
In my ninja strike wandering down my news feed, I spotted this:
What do I want to tell him?
How about that it will be a cold day in hell before I refer to him as "Mr. President?"
Are you serious? "Mr. President" is a title of respect. Our duly elected Hater-in-Chief has none, for anyone or anything, and in return, will get none from me. Karma's a bitch.
In fact, neither shall I refer to him as President Trump, or even Mr. Trump. The best, the absolute pinnacle of non-contempt that will issue forth from me in reference to the buffoon who has redecorated the Oval Office to suit his tasteless nouveau-riche preferences will be "Trump." And that will only be if I am in mixed company who would be offended by my preferred appellation for our malignant (dick)head of state: "Cheeto Jesus."
"Mr. President" indeed. Not in a million years.