By Allen Callaci
The head spins. The mind rattles. The body aches as the daylight strikes like the tail of a Spitting Thicktail Black Scorpion. Your pores emit a steady stream of Little Caesars and Green Apple Vodka. You gingerly make your way to the hotel bathroom. Each step feels like rolling naked across a bed of Legos. You open your eyes just wide enough to catch your reflection. You rub your tired fingers through the crusty specks of vomit and the stale remains of Zesty Ranch Doritos tangled up inside your beard.
Who am I? Where am I? What the hell happened?
Remember that famous scene in the first Hangover movie? The one where they wake after a hard night of partying in Vegas and find a 500-lb. tiger pacing in their bathroom? This is how I feel as inauguration day slowly approaches. How the f**k did this 500-lb. salivating tiger get into the hotel bathroom? How the f**k do we get it out?
And like those bleary-eyed, clueless groomsmen from the Hangover who awake trapped in a Caesar’s Palace hotel room with Mike Tyson’s tiger I keep trying to rationalize the utterly irrational – The Last Known Superpower on the Planet Has Handed Over the Reigns to a Crotch-grabbing, Putin Sucking, Race-Baiting, Meryl Streep Fearing Man-Child.
There have been times over the past few months where I’ve almost laughed over the sheer asinine absurdity of it all. But then just like in The Hangover comes the chill of the cold waking light and the unavoidable realization that “Holy s**t! There’s a f**king 500- lb. tiger in the bathroom!”
“No need to worry,” gush the spray-tanned commentators “give the 500-lb. tiger a fair chance.”
“But the tiger hasn’t eaten in a week and he’s already mauled, devoured and shat out everyone else in the room.”
“The tiger’s handlers assure us that this is just the tiger being a tiger. People love the tiger because the tiger’s real. Like an infant pissing on the carpet while humming the alphabet song the tiger is saying and doing exactly what it feels. And its’ every bit as refreshing as the tiger’s handlers assured us that it would be.”
Looking into the first rays of the morning light after an all-night binge is always a painful strain. It is not even Inauguration Day and already the world seems changed. My hard-right relatives, who used to call me a “commie” for my belief that a society can be judged by how it takes care of its most vulnerable, have all ran off and become honorary Putin-teers overnight. The liberal college town I reside in has covered itself in safety pins and “safe spaces.” The other day there was a story of a distraught third-grade Hispanic girl asking her mother what the pale-skinned children on the playground meant when they chanted “Trump is gonna get ya” at her during lunch break.
And to think Trump has not even been sworn in yet.
Who are we? Where are we? What the hell is going to happen?
Anyone got a couple Tylenol I can borrow to make this dizziness; nausea and troubled sense of anxious unease go away?