Trump curse strikes again

Earlier this week Senator Jon Ossoff made a pretty innocuous comment about Trump's favorite executive assistant Natalie Harp. His comment was meant to be a critique of Cheetolini's lack of interest in doing his actual job: being President. Instead of focusing on important policy issues and maybe finding an off ramp for the clusterfuck he created in the Middle East, Orange Julius would rather talk about drapes for his version of Versailles or the imaginary vandals attacking the reflecting pool on the National Mall. Ossoff correctly noted that Trump preferred to travel with Natalie rather than do any real work.

The MAGAverse flipped out. The response was bizarre. The Reich wing immediately went into overdrive ranting about how Ossoff had trashed the Diaper Nurse by suggesting she and the orange cockwomble were fornicating. It's kind of cute that the MAGAts hold Cheetolini in such high esteem they think that decrepit geezer is capable of fucking anything. Do they see the suggestion of impropriety as proof of Mango Mussolini's manhood? After all, if he and his human security blanket are getting it on it's more proof that he really is the hypermasculine almost a superhero his Truth Social posts keep suggesting he is. 

Let's get real. There isn't enough Viagra on the planet to stiffen the mushroom hiding in Cheetolini's diapers. And if there was it would probably kill him -- Viagra and a bad heart (and Orange Julius is like a textbook illustration for Congestive Heart Failure in an elderly man) do not mix. Granted, it could mean an old dude gets to die happy, but would The Donald risk it? He's definitely sliding into full-blown dementia but he's also got strong survival skills -- and Cheetolini is scared shitless of dying. 

So why do I say "Trump curse strikes again?" Because this is typical inept messaging from Team Trump. If they had all just ignored it anything Ossoff said wouldn't have been news outside Georgia. Instead the rapid response team freaked out and went more than a tad overboard on two things: accusing Ossoff of trashing Natalie and denying vehemently any unseemly genitalia fondling was happening. End result? Instead of a brief mention in the AJC (Atlanta Journal Constitution) a nothing burger turned into a multi-course meal for the national press. And maybe international. I haven't checked Helsingfors Sanomat recently but when a news item is on the front page of every major U.S. paper that news item usally ends up in papers elsewhere. The Trump rapid response team did a great job of promoting a news story no one really knew or cared about before they highlighted it.

So what is the deal with Natalie? It seems likely she's exactly what it looks like: a human security blanket who keeps Orange Julius mellow by indulging his narcissism. She carries a portable printer everywhere so she can produce hard copies of flattering memes, articles, whatever at a moment's notice to placate Cheetolini's ego. She's the one who feeds The Donald's vanity by handing results of bogus polls claiming he's super popular or that the economy is doing great. She guarantees he almost never hears the truth about anything. She's been described by various observers as basically unhinged, so totally obsessed with Trump that she's viewed by security experts as a potential threat (obsessive fans tend to lash out at whoever they've obsessed about when things don't go as expected), but Orange Julius is too dense to realize the woman is a few fries short of a Happy Meal. He loves the flattery so is oblivious to the crazy. Given Natalie's superficial resemblance to Ivanka, it's possible the senile old coot doesn't have a clue who she really is. 

Lessons in mortality

We spent Saturday afternoon at a potluck party at an older friend's house. The fellow enjoys a lakeside cottage and established a tradition years ago of hosting a yard party once every summer. Attendees include fellow lakeside dwellers (i.e, the folks who live on or near the same small lake he does), former neighbors from where they used to live, relatives, and miscellaneous acquaintances. 

I'm not sure what category the S.O. and I fall into. The S.O. has known the host forever, since childhood, and my parents were friends with his parents. I'm not sure just how old the man is, but his younger brother is about to turn 85. So definitely an octogenarian, as is his spouse. Not surprisingly, it was not a particularly young crowd at this soiree. The S.O. and I were incredibly young and spry compared with some of the other folks enjoying the food and music -- the host plays the accordion and usually has a friend accompanying him on keyboards. It's a nice event. It's also one that guarantees that at least once a year we'll get to hear "The Sauna Song." 

The keyboardist, incidentally, looked to be about 200 years old and was toting an oxygen bottle. His grandson served as a roadie: carried in all the equipment, made sure his grandfather was set up correctly, and handled everything that required any physical exertion. His grandfather, despite looking older than the Crypt Keeper, was decent on keyboards. His voice cracked more than a little when he sang, but other than that. . . no issues. I'm not a fan of what I think of as wedding dance music (polkas, schottisches, etc.) with the possible exception of "Kulkurin Valsi" but it was all actually rather nice. 

So what does a summer potluck party have to do with mortality? Well, when the crowd on average is older than the proverbial dirt, one cannot help noticing that the number of attendees has been steadily declining over the past five or six years. More empty seats, more people negotiating with walkers, more folks toting oxygen bottles around. This was not a crowd that was likely to create a nuisance or disturb any uninvited neighbors with noise or rowdiness. The most likely disturbance would be an ambulance siren when one of the attendees dropped from a cardiac event. You know, it's always a nice party with good food and music and people generally enjoying themselves. . . but, fuck, everyone is getting so damn old.