I’ve always been curious about those who seem fascinated by accidents. “Damn rubberneckers!” my dad would grunt as he slowed down to observe the wreck. On other excursions, my grandmother would shield our eyes with her hands and shriek, “Don’t look children!” as she stuck her head out the window to take in the carnage. There’s an old adage in the news business, “If it bleeds, it leads” — and man, it does.

Subsequently, I suppose I should not be flummoxed by fascination over the hemoglobin oozing from the Trump 2020 campaign.  The president’s “numbers” are dropping like flies — as if even flies are finally wearying of the stench from this enormous pile of poo. On the bumpy road that has been this accidental presidency for three-plus long years, what some refer to as “the clown car” (disrespectful, sophomoric humor — but it fits my narrative here) boasts a number of casualties. A political pile-up of cabinet members, staffers, and revered members of the military. Top dogs adopted from the corporate kennel — have all been treated for various injuries, and released.

Even good ol’ Dr. Fauci has been dumped on the side of the road so as to pick up and rescue Roger Stone who was perp-walking his way to jail.

I read recently that if one were if one were asked to identify the worse day of the Trump presidency, the answer would be “tomorrow.”

Tomorrow notwithstanding, all roads lead to the polls or mailboxes in November.

Meantime, please buckle up and drive carefully!  Enjoy the rest of the summer — but look both ways for out-of-control clown cars.


Buddy Doyle


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