I’m trying to enjoy it all, revel in the calm before the storm, and kind of guess: How would Cassandra feel?

I’m not suggesting any prescience nor especial acumen, but you’d have to be more of a village idiot than me, and I am one, truly, not to get it, not to see what’s happening, and what’s imminent.

The enormity of the distractions as the geezers put hot sauce in the eggs and switch salt for sugar, the merry Pranksters about to inhabit the White House, why the boys are gonna turn the joint into a frat party. Between them they’ve got, what, 25 wives, ex- or otherwise, trophy and what-not. They might as well be Muslim warlords with harems.

So if they all think it’s a big joke, why not me? Why not all of us? Let them take away the good stuff, and nickel-dime us for what’s left, let them laugh in our faces.

When the smoke clears, it’ll be their legacy to have had the party, and, as usual, we’ll just be cleaning up, yes, sir, we sure will.