October 3, 2023
Oh Dear Diary:
Whatever shall I do? If he doesn’t stop humming “Row Row Row Your Boat” I’m going to double the Thorazine starting in 10 minutes. (I can do that because I’m a doctor.)
Yesterday it was “Hickory Dickory Dock” right through “dinner” if you can call it that with him at the table, and when he woke me up at 4 a.m. he was reciting the alphabet. Again.
Dinner. Don’t remind me. It’s been Cocoa Puffs and Pudding Pops for the past four nights. And he’s still having tantrums unless he gets to use his Captain Video Sippy Cup when he takes all the “vitamins” the medical team has him on. I might start taking some myself. Do you think 1200 milligrams of Valium a day will make me look fat?
This afternoon what’s-her-name (Carmella?) came over to try to get him to sign some document thingie about endorsing her President as soon as Obama declares him unable to perform his duties. Over my dead body. OK, maybe he can’t spell his own name but at least he doesn’t break into nervous laughter fits when someone asks him a question. Not that they ask her any.
And it’s not like Joe had sex with every California politician to get to the top either!! Sexual assault, yes, but times were different back in 2014. Also, Willie Brown never bought Joe a sports car in exchange for sexual favors.
I’m just so grateful for our White House news reporter journalism club, as long as they keep not mentioning the old “cocaine-in-the-White House” nonsense. Or Hunter’s laptop thing about payoffs and kiddie porn. Or whether Joe can count backwards from 10. Or inflation and the economy, or the time he thought the Mayor of Cleveland was the Easter Bunny and asked if he could reach in his pants and find his eggs.
Got another Covid vaccine last week but then I got Covid again this week. I’ve had Covid vaccines two times and got Covid flu two times. I’m a doctor but I’m not allowed to talk about any of this until after the election. (That’s when People Magazine does a cover story about my struggles to become a doctor and my courage and stuff.)
Tomorrow we have to prepare for the trip where he gets to fly in a big airplane, if he can make it up the steps. Oh Dear Diary, why they can’t build a nice elevator for Air Force One? I mean if Donald Trump got solid gold fixtures installed in the bathrooms, know what I’m saying?
It will be fancy dress ball in Chicago, but first Obama ordered a mandatory meeting of the Hounds from Hell. It’s a fun group. We get together every few months to pick new places to have trump indicted or sued or accused or whatever. I found Pocket Hole, ND on a map! We’ll keep him running ‘til we chase him up a tree ha ha!!
Then the big dinner where we meet important donors and nobody asks nosy questions about Chinese donations, Ukrainian bribes or the icky smells Joe makes, some of which are just the natural human process of breaking wind. Very normal.
I’m a doctor, and it’s just intestinal-type gas fumes. Most of it, anyway.
And would it kill the staff to change his Depends once or twice an hour? Why don’t they do their jobs instead of hanging out all day with Hunter in that dingy old fourth floor storage room?
It’s hard to get good help these days. Why do people all of a sudden not want to work anyway? Joe can’t give everybody money and free stuff, although he tries his best, bless his heart.
Well, no one ever said it was easy or cheap to win an election, even with mail-in ballots from our longtime friends at Eternal Heavenly Rest Acres in Chicago, or all those voters at the Philadelphia City Morgue.
Gotta run, Dear Diary. It’s 7 o’clock and way past his bedtime. I’ll get hot cocoa sent over and tell someone to read him the book about The Little Train That Could. He loves that one!
He’ll sleep on the couch tonight because he suddenly got afraid of the stairs again, and as a doctor I support decisions to help empower him. Plus he likes cuddling with his friend Buzzy the Big Fluffy Bunny (and I don’t want him waking me up to tell him about Goldilocks and the Three Bears!)
So another exhausting day comes to an end, Dear Diary. Even though I’m a doctor sometimes I get so darn tired I feel like giving up.
But then I take a deep breath and ask myself, “What would Ruth Ginsburg do?”
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