The handsome little fellow Hubert H. Humphrey remarked about.
I have repeated this story more than once on this site.
When I was five years old, in the summer of 1968, I was at the Minnesota State Fair with my mum, and I met a man by the name of Hubert H. Humphrey. I was wearing a red blazer, and had my hair all slicked back with Brylcreem, (which was the style at the time,) and Senator Humphrey shook my hand, and told my mum I was a “handsome little fellow,” which was also the style at the time.
“Are you going to vote for that nice man, mommy?” I asked her. Her reply was, “no.”
“Why not?” I asked, really hoping I could change her mind.
“He talks to much,” she said, and I guarantee you, that was her lifelong opinion of Senator Humphrey.
“Well, who’re you gonna vote for?” I asked, innocently enough.
“Nixon,” was her reply.
“WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!” I cried, because Nixon was a mean, mean man, with no sense of humor, who would probably take my stuffed puppy, and cancel Sesame Street, just because he could.
In ‘72, my parents remember how hard Nixon had made me cry, and I like to think I had a hand in convincing them to vote for McGovern, because they did, and we all know how that worked out.
And what does that have to do with anything?
You all have lost your mind over here at the Great Orange Satan.
“Hillary Clinton needs to release the transcripts of her wedding night,” pants one breathless Bernie supporter.
“Bernie believe in Santa Clause, the Tooth Fairy, and the Easter Bunny, and he’s going to try and put them all on the Supreme Court,” shouts an angry Hillary Supporter.
“New York is feeling the Bern!”
“Wisconsin is where you get cheese!”
“Sanders supporters are liars!”
“Hillary supporters are butt heads.”
“I need a drink!”
Don’t we all? I mean, not me, as I am an alcoholic, who had his last drop way back in 1992, but in theory we all do, anyway. I’m just saying, this blog has been giving me a sad. Some of you take yourselves, your candidate, and Warner Brothers cartoons WAAAAAAAY too seriously.
Shame on You
When Cruz and Trump started dragging out butt size, wives, lack of stupidity, and fear of their own shadows, I laughed.
“We’re so much better than that,” I bragged to a Republican friend, and then punched him in the stomach just to remind him who’s in charge around here.
Imagine my embarrassment when he phoned up to turn the tables.
“I read Daily Kos the other day,” he chortled, “looks like Sanders is going to win the next 17 primaries, and Hillary’s going through his trash looking for dirt.”
“None of that is true,” I countered coolly, “that’s wishful thinking by desperate supporters.”
“Looks like those supporters are snorting crushed up baby aspirin, and drinking paint,” my idiotic friend guffawed, “several of them have started their own countries, where Bernie is the King, and there’s no military.”
“Look, you wretched half-wit,” I spat, shaking my fist at him through the phone, “this is just a primary war. None of these people even remotely believes any of this nonsense! They’re just upset, and need someone to hold their hands, and rub their tummies.”
“Well who doesn’t?” he reflected, his voice taking a sad turn, realizing no one would be doing that for him any time soon.
I felt bad, so I made fun of him for awhile, and then hung up.
