At the moment, there's one uplifting thought that keeps me going, and improves like a fine wine . . . [View all]

In less than three months, Donald Trump will be 80 years old. 80. That's three-score and ten plus ten.

And while there are gifted exceptions maintaining their talents, passions and contributions to the world at that age and beyond (Hans Bethe, Grandma Moses, Vladimir Horowitz, Pierre Boulez), they're the exceptions to the iron rule of mortality and faltering flesh.

Meanwhile, the nearly-80-year-old Donald Trump, with the ingratiating charm of a farting hippo, the personal magnetism of a honey badger and cankles as wide as a rich man's grave, stumbles onward towards the kickoff of the first and biggest global block party that ever has been, or ever will be.

And as he hauls his rubbery, walrus-like bulk through the remaining months of his life, whining his way through the remains of the country he's done so much to wreck, in some dimly-lit subbasement of his field mouse-level consciousness, he knows three things:

(A) He's grotesque, stupid, a rapist and a liar who smells bad and shits his pants on a daily basis
(B) Nobody - nobody - likes him and he's never, ever ever going to be one of the cool kids
(C) He will die soon, and nobody's going to show up to put flowers on his golden casket

Just a thought to (I hope!) put a spring in your step and a smile on your face!