If you don’t like the current headline, just wait five minutes. I’m sitting here at 7 p.m. trying to write a relevant piece for publication at noon tomorrow. The problem is I don’t know what is going to be relevant in seventeen minutes, let alone seventeen hours.
I woke up one morning swimming in jokes about people needing their morning cup of covfefe. He fell asleep mid-tweet while trying to type the word “coverage,” right? It’s no big deal. But wait… Sean Spicer says it was deliberate and the president and a small group of people know what he meant. What in the what!? Who is the small group? Is it Boris and Natasha? This is a huge deal! (Or would be in anything other than the Trump news cycle.) So I should write about covfefe, right? But to be relevant by tomorrow, I would literally have to invent a new word, expect the leader of the free world to tweet it while falling asleep, then have his team make up an excuse that raises way more questions than it answers. By the time you read this, covfefe will regrettably be old news.
Maybe I should write about Kathy Griffin. It only took a few hours of daylight to be reminded that she isn’t funny. She’s apparently as mindless as she is hard on the ears. Hiring her was the second worst decision CNN has made next to having panels made up of fourteen people. We SHOULD be having a debate about free speech and how you can say insanely vile and disgusting things, right? Not happening. Instead, I’ve got to guess who will have their feelings hurt tomorrow.
We are pulling out of the Paris climate accord. It’s the most nonsensical move since making up a story about covfefe being some codeword. Maybe I should write about that. The future is here, people. We have self driving cars, (fake) hoverboards, and my grandmother has figured out how to text me at 5:30 a.m. Meanwhile, rather than embracing our newfound renewable energy, we’re going to reinvest in a 2nd century technology. Yeah, that’ll show em’ who’s boss. Any other time and it would be the story of the year, yet I can’t even decide if it was the story of the day.
So here we are, people of the future… although it feels like President Trump wants us to be the people of the past. If I had to guess (and I do), I’d bet that by the time you read this we will have all washed down our bacon, egg, and cheeflablah biscuit with some covfefe, opened our eyes to the fact that Gilbert Gottfried is obnoxious, and hopped in our horse-drawn carriages to fetch some asbestos-flavored lead paint to snack on.
Oh, and the coral reefs are dying.