Was forced by the patriarchy to watch the State of the Union, even though it was far far too late and of no interest to me whatsoever. Matt thought the children should have a crucial, if jarring, civics lesson. We don’t really watch tv, and they aren’t used to seeing the astonishing visage of Mr. Trump, or hearing the dulcet tones of his winsome voice, cough. Don’t worry, they didn’t see Mr. Obama either. I am equal opportunity uninterested in watching people make speeches.
Although, truthiness be told, didn’t really watch it. Messed around on Facebook and Twitter while the children exclaimed over the color of the president’s face, the sweep of his hair, and the fact that only half of the crowd stood up to applaud every few moments. Tried to explain that this is the usual way, but didn’t do a very good job as am unenlightened about whence this peculiarly custom derives. Then they wanted to know why he had to call out and embarrass so many people, and make them cry. Explained that it’s an honor to be invited and told to stand up and everyone clap. This, rightly, appalled them. What a strange and embarrassing adulation.
In this way the substance of the speech essentially passed us by. The externals were too interesting. What is it, though, about children having to shout wildly over everything? No matter what we are doing and where we are, even if we are all confined together in a microscopic space, the volume is always ridiculously elevated. And there’s no reason to jump on the couch, ever. But especially not when I’m sitting there trying to arrest the encroaching tide of ennui by surfing around Facebook and Twitter.
Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, the State of the Union. As I said, didn’t hear anything Mr. Trump said. Thought the democrat side of the room looked too smug. Thought the same about the republican half. Wondered what goes on in the soul of Mr. Pence every day. What sort of breakfast does he have? How does he get his hair to look like that? I mean, the hair of Mr. Trump is one of the phenomenons of this modern age. I expect there will be whole books written about it–oh wait, maybe there already were. How curious that the hair of Mr. Pence should be so eclipsed by the hair of Mr. Trump. Surely this must Mean Something.
Also, the gesturing, and, one cannot fail to notice, the jutting out of the chin. Indeed, as I am casting my mind’s eye over the whole extraordinary evening, I think Mr. Trump would find a kindred soul in Rodrick Spode, noted amateur dictator and purveyor of ladies’ undergarments. They could be twin souls.