Is it polite to wish ill of my enemies?

You may harbor dark thoughts of coronavirus spreading at a contagion-denying political conference, or a presidential rally, or a trashy expensive Florida resort. Enjoy them! Life is short enough as it is, and may be shorter still if this keeps up.

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The thing about coronavirus — about any disease, really — is that we know what to do.

We may not know how to prevent it. We may not know how to cure it. We may not even know how to alleviate suffering.

But we know what to do.

We know how to look for it. We know how to identify it. We know what to do about it.

We know what to do.

Problem is, we don’t do it.

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Bernie is not our first choice this year.

He was our first choice four years ago, in part because he generated optimism, in part because Hillary is an untrustworthy leader (Iraq, not emails) and bad politician. You want Hillary as a Cabinet secretary, not the boss.

Bernie hasn’t worn well in the time since, so this year he’s only our second choice. And y’know, we could live with Cranky Mike if we had to, but it’s looking like we don’t, so good for us, but really, you understand what we’re facing, right? Throw up anybody who isn’t a petty treasonous tyrant, and we’re game.

All of which is to say, we don’t get the sudden freakout over Bernie Sanders.

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Uncle Joe isn’t gonna save us, is he?

We wanted Uncle Joe to save us. That’s who everybody said we wanted, anyway. Everybody’s worried that we don’t want Grandpa Bernie to save us, or Aunt Liz. Everybody’s worried about what we think. They think we want Uncle Joe to save us. Only Uncle Joe isn’t gonna save us.

But maybe Cranky Mike will!

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Here’s what we know: Natalie Wood, then 16, was brutally raped in late 1954 or early 1955.

Here’s what we don’t: The rapist was Kirk Douglas.

The subject came up following his death last Wednesday at age 103, as it did following a Golden Globes appearance two years ago, and as it will Sunday night at the Oscars, following his last-minute inclusion in the Death Montage.

And really, it’s not an unreasonable suspicion. But the certainty with which it’s expressed goes beyond any fact we can nail down. As does the certainty surrounding much of the discussion about it.

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In an apparent terminal mental melt-down, big fat Kremlin call girl Donald Trump has taken to making up his face with a can of construction marker paint and combing his hair with furniture lacquer.

Trump, deeply drugged, walks in slow motion around the White House babbling threats to avenge slights against his royal prerogative to destroy the universe by a growing list of perpetrators that include the parking attendant at the Russell office building that houses the Senate staff and his fourth grade English teacher.

The White House staff have taken to carrying walkie talkies to warn each other of Trump’s movements to avoid encountering him and having to receive his orders to behead someone or to bear his child.

Chief of Staff Mick Mulvaney calls these days the ‘Moe! Larry! Cheese! phase’ of the Trump Administration and spends inordinate amounts of time trying to convince staffers to carry their tassels with them at all times.

CUNT IN CHIEF TRUMP GOES SPASTIC BECAUSE HE IS ORGANICALLY INSANE – COMPLETELY MOE LARRY CHEESE! THE ROYAL IMBECILE DOESN’T HAVE LONG TO GO!

The creepiness of the President of the United States making a complete village-idiot fool of himself is in no way assuaged by the delicious schadenfreude of watching the most vile, repulsive piece of shit in the entire fucking universe melt down into drooling, plotching dementia but I’ll take it.

The Miami Herald reported yesterday: “During the national anthem at his own Super Bowl watch party Sunday night, a brief video posted to Instagram shows Trump greeting guests, adjusting his chair, and straightening his suit jacket as other attendees — including first lady Melania Trump and their teenage son — stand with their hands over their hearts. As “The Star Spangled Banner” crescendoes, Trump raises both of his hands in the air, and twirls them around as if conducting the music.

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