Previously on The Anti-Social Media….
Based on a True Story…
I was recently reflecting on my run-in with MAGA Mike Minogue, and hitting a wannabe governor with a door (allegedly) dredged up some repressed feelings and memories. Specifically, it reminded me how much I fucking HATE being late.
I’m talking: the kind of rage Stephen Miller would feel if the CMAs handed a lifetime achievement award to Bad Bunny. Pardon my French, but I even think people who believe “15 minutes early is on time and on time is late” are pre-’tards.’
Back in ’98, I commuted to Northeastern University. I normally took the T—which is not short for train, but for MBTA. Which in Masshole means “train made mostly of pee.”… And before you even ask, no, Bostonians don’t shorten all initials down to a single letter. Like no one here ever called RFK R or K; however, R-F-K’S J-R CAN go F-himself….
On this particular day, T passengers were experiencing the ultimate: “I walked five miles uphill both ways in a blizzard” over-exaggerated commute. The train was so late that I had already chewed my fingernails down to the toes. While wondering: if the turnstile were a guillotine, could it take the thought of walking into class late off my mind?
Forget being 15 minutes early. At this point, I was haul-assing through campus, just to avoid being late AF.
So, I finally arrived at the building, and as I flew around the last corner at the speed of white, I drilled what felt like a speed bump made of 98% elbow and teeth, yet, somehow, on impact, it still squealed like an effeminate pig. Luckily, I have elite hand-eye coordination. Before my snack-sized tackling dummy even hit the ground, I scooped him up, like the Flash bumping into his long-lost crush on the way to homeroom.
When we ultimately crash-landed, my hands gently cupped the back of my victim’s head as his mouth gently cupped the bottom of my testicles through the crotch of my jogging pants.
It wasn’t until I removed my manicured man-bag from this future plaintiff’s jaw that I recognized I was tea-bagging Michael-Fucking-Dukakis.
Yup. The former Governor of Massachusetts, and the presidential runner-up to Dubya’s Duller Dadda. THAT was the fragile old man I had accidentally ridden down a hallway like a polyester boogey-board on a Slip-and-Slide. Or, from his point of view, the slapstick version of Diddy’s hallway assault starring Magoo’s speedy nephew: Methamphetamine Magoo.
VS
Despite everything, the Professor Emeritus seemed far more annoyed by the excessive apologizing than by the newfound intimate knowledge of a stranger’s taint. I genuinely felt awful regardless; he, on the other hand, couldn’t have been any cooler about our literal clusterfuck.
“PEACE OUT”
In retrospect, though, I think I got the worst of it. I mean, after all, I WAS late. I bet he, on the other hand, felt 10 years younger— getting embarrassed in another head-to-head face-off with a conservative Bush.
In Today’s Palate Cleanser, we take a behind-the-scenes look at TDS… The Daily Show, not Trump Derangement Syndrome. Although have you ever seen a MAGAT recover their purse from a Target Shopping cart? It’s fascinating, like watching Winnie the Pooh open a jar of honey with his sphincter. But on the way out, after swallowing the entire jar whole.
“What’s your stance, Mr President?”
“Well, I’m clearly right-leannnnning…”
