This morning brought two rude awakenings: a blinding headache and no hot water. Just my luck, right? Wrong, this isn’t fate, this is Obama. He’s in the toaster oven. Or maybe the waffle iron. But it could be the blender, too. You never know with that guy. He’s bad (or sick).
I’m being monitored by all my appliances and, frankly, I hope they enjoy themselves. I’m not trying to brag, but I put on a darn good show. I sing. I dance. I talk with the television. I do play-by-plays of my activities, with an occasional impression of Julia Child while I cook. I’m very entertaining and I don’t mind an audience. Invisible or not.
While I understand the reason for the headache — it’s from the brain implant — what’s with the torture? No hot water is a dirty, lowdown trick, even for the deep state. Haven’t I cooperated? I mean, I let you listen in on my conversations and watch my every move, what more can I do? What is it you want? The password to whirly? My navy blue Chuck Taylor’s? No. Nyet. I’ve given all I’m prepared to give. Some things are still sacred.
Thank God (and Kellyanne Conway), I still have my tinfoil tent.
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