Anchor Struck

I won’t breathe normally again until November 9th, but my gut is slowly unclenching as Droopy Donnie’s campaign continues to implode.  I’ve gone Trump on Trump because Hilary is classy enough to not counter his “Crooked” label of her.  People are saying — I certainly don’t believe it — that the Screaming Cantaloupe has had problems satisfying Melania (or was it Ivana?  Some of the people were mumbling) in the bedroom.

Should Clinton choose to use this nickname in the debates, she would ensure her election when Droopy sputtered and denied and possibly whipped it out to dispute her.  Her campaign is welcome to use the moniker.  Perhaps I should contact it.

Trumpeters are cheered that he hasn’t done anything outrageously negative for a few days, but how long can that last?  True, he predicted he can have 95% of the black vote by 2020, but that’s really in his normal range of bullshit.  Not even Obama can get 95%.

Donnie’s mellowing so far has consisted of some on-prompter speeches, an “apology” for something new campaign director Kelley Conway suggested, and an appearance in Louisiana to hand out supplies to flood victims.  I’d wager that that effort lasted just long enough for the cameras to roll, then Trump jetted to New Orleans for dinner at Brennan’s.  As a survivor of many Louisiana Augusts, I can assure you that only the suicidal or desperate wear a blue blazer in the brutal heat and humidity.

So keep struggling, Droopy.  At least until mid-September.  The filing deadlines to change names on the general election ballot has already passed in several key states, but let’s play it safe for my gut’s sake.