When Trump’s Nazis Turn On Him

Terrorists have no patience.

As one of my grad school professors said to me decades ago, “They are like children. They want what they want and they want it now.”

Meryl Streep told me she used Children Who Hate as preparation for playing Kate in The Taming of the Shrew, because that’s how she interpreted Kate: a petulant child.

Trump’s terrorist Nazis, aka rednecks with guns (hereafter referred to RWG, if I ever decide to write about him or them again) really expect him to make good on his promises; and when he doesn’t (because he can’t or won’t) build the Wall, deport the Muslims, eradicate terrorism in 90 days, turn the queers back into 2nd class citizens, keep the coloreds out of their neighborhoods, evaporate the Obamacare, return control of the women’s wombs to the state, create high-paying jobs for the ignorant, unskilled  and lazy — shall I continue? — they are going to turn on him and they will turn bad and ugly.

Here’s hoping they fully exercise their Second Amendment rights and focus them where they so deservedly belong.



NYC Bombed: Hillary Fucks Up Big Time –and- Were Star Wars Surveillance Satellites Unplugged?

As you may have read, there was an explosion in Manhattan at 23rd street and 6th Ave and a pressure-cooker bomb (not detonated) was found a few blocks north. At this writing, the po-po have no suspects and they are looking at surveillance tapes from nearby businesses.

These crime-solving actions would be laughable if they were not so pathetic.

The US military, law enforcement, and gubment agencies have Star Wars-type satellites in the sky that they say can pinpoint a pimple on a person’s neck. And what about the crazy, scary shit that you’ll never know about that you’re also paying for? It’s even been reported that there is an app that can tell you when a satellite has locked onto you.

So why are cops looking at grainy, useless vids from Korean delis? Was Star Wars on pause or unplugged? Is this whole eye-in-the-sky security shit a big fucking scam? Or is merely used to indict guys sucking each other off in parks and alleyways in the Village and Chelsea?

Worse yet, presidential candidate and former secretary of state, Hillary Clinton, who should know quite a lot about terrorism and how to cope with and prevent it, has cautioned people from saying that the explosion was a bomb. What was it then? A giant fart by the Wells-Fargo branch at 26th St because its CEO is on-the-verge of being indicted?

It is one thing to question whether this action was predicated on international terrorism; it is another thing entirely to deny that it was terrorism. Gov. Cuomo, a guy who has no problem usually telling it like it is — and a big bud of the Clintons — said without hesitation, “A bomb exploding in New York is obviously an act of terrorism.”

For Hillary Clinton to try and calm down New Yorkers is probably a good thing. But to say that an explosion in Chelsea that was not the result of a gas leak, a freak accident or an act of God, has yet to be proven a terrorist act, is downright nutty. Hell, maybe the bomber had a bad experience at the Home Depot, which is a few hundred yards east of the detonation site. Although if that’s the case, bombs should be going off in Chelsea daily. I’ve spent years wanting to blow up the Home Depot.

The prerequisite to combatting terrorism is to acknowledge it. I would suggest that Clinton might lose votes over her denial, that is if anyone was paying attention. No one is.

The election could be conducted tomorrow or last week or last month. This is not a race in which Beulah and Jimmy Bob are sitting at home asking each other, “Should I vote for Hillary or Dump?” Nobody is, how you say, on the fucking fence.

This election is not a choice between Milky Way® and Almond Joy®. More like a choice between devouring animals or going vegan. Few folks are likely to shift sides. And everyone’s known which side they’re on for almost a year.

That’s why when I read shit like how Hillary has $80 million and Dump has $1.98 to spend at the finish, or that she has 5 million boots on the campaign ground and the constipated Cheeto® has twelve, I find the comparisons detestable. It makes no difference.

The inmates want to run the asylum and I’m hoping the guards can convince everyone outside that order has been restored, even if they have to pull a master con to do it.



Dead Black Kid Brandishing A BB Gun Is No Tragedy, Just Stupidity

If a serial killer is on the loose in your neighborhood and he targets females with blond hair who are 16-21 years old, who are shorter than 5’2”, who are on the streets between midnight and 2 AM, then young women who fit this profile need to be very careful. A good mother and father would sit their daughter down and make certain she understands how to avoid becoming the maniac’s next victim.

Is there a human with normal intelligence who disagrees with the above paragraph?

If so, then, “Hello, CPS. Get that kid away from its parent(s) ASAP!”

Black male kids and young adults have a long history of being offed by cops and by each other. This is not Trump hyperbole; it is fact.

In the last several years, there has been an epidemic of young black males being killed by cops. Many of those murdered have presented what appear to be weapons — sometimes they are, other times they are not — or acting in what has been termed a “menacing” manner. The Black Lives Matter movement grew out of black boys ending up being autopsied.

If I change the descriptions in the first paragraph to read: the serial killer target black males, aged 10-18, under 6 feet tall, who are on the streets between midnight and 4 PM, and who don’t seem to have any obvious or discernible reason for being where they are at the time a cop encounters them, and that they appear to be carrying or aiming a weapon at the cop, then we have the scenario of black kids being killed in increments much higher than their counterparts of other races.

What black mama doesn’t know about this? What black person doesn’t live with the fear of being in the wrong place at the wrong time — or even being in the right place at the right time — and going to the morgue on a gurney rather than going to sleep in his (or her) bed?

Did your parent or other caretaker not brief you on the inherent dangers of being black, not only the USA, but elsewhere? Do they really need to? Isn’t something a black person, if he not a freak like Ben Carson, feels daily?

A couple of years ago, I was standing outside Madison Square Garden waiting for a bus. Three black youths were playing chicken in the middle of Seventh Avenue in a vain effort to try to hail a cab. Did any cabs stop and say, “Where you goin’?” To clarify, I think they really wanted to get a ride in a taxi hadn’t a clue what their actions were conveying or that they were placing a bull’s eye on their chests.

What planet were they from? Can black children grow up to be black teens in the USA and not realize that racial hate places thrm at risk?

I guess the answer is yes.

First, they could have been struck and killed by a cab driver as these kids were bobbing and weaving all over the intersection. The more they got ignored or horned by a cab, the wider their arc became. Second, cab drivers had ample opportunity to deliberately hit one of them and use the justifiable excuse that these kids were obstructing their driving and acting, well, acting like a bunch o’ niggers.

A 13 year-old in Columbus, OH,  was pointing a BB gun at a cop who had been dispatched to an area where, he was told, there had been a bank robbery. Take a look at a facsimile of the kid’s gun. Would you shoot to kill?

Right on cue, every asshole in officialdom is railing about what a tragedy this is. Like this will help or stop other black kids from being killed. No tragedy here. Just a fucking stupid kid who wasn’t told by some adult with a brain: “Gimme all your guns, knives, anything that can harm someone! You wanna learn how to protect yourself? You’re taking martial arts at the community center! And you ain’t hangin’ with no niggahs, get it? Cause you gonna be too busy reading and studying and exploring new subjects and developing your mind and body so you can become  just like President Obama!”

Kid still might get killed in black-on-black violence, but it won’t be for pointing a perceived weapon at a murderer wearing a badge. Yo kid. What did you fucking expect?

Oh, I forgot, you ain’t around to answer my question.


Flashback To The Future: I Think I Met Donald Trump at a Gay Live Show Porno Theatre in Times Square

The Disneyfication of Times Square is a well-worn subject and, frankly, it’s blah, blah, blah.

I never thought the Sin City of the Northeast would be gentrified in my lifetime, but it was. I should have thought harder; I would have known that my prediction was wrong: There’s just too much money to be made by inserting national chain entertainment and tourist shit at the Crossroads of the World, proving that Times Square is worth more dead than alive.

Historians and urban planners have wailed for years about how every major city has its sleazy sections and that they are important and essential parts of such metro areas, crating a distinct, vibrant anti-culture. (Without them, sex work sashays to ‘burbs and you know what happens when that happens.) Red light areas grew up around ports because that’s where sailors and immigrants disembarked. And everyone knows that sailors are always homo and immigrants are always horny. Hooray for sex commerce!

The above is mere exposition to what I am going to narrate and, although I am a proud atheist, I swear on whatever you hold holy that every word that follows (and precedes it) is true.

In the 1980s-mid 1990s, there was a tiny, second-floor dive called Show Palace (gay) on Eighth Avenue between 42nd & 43rd streets in Manhattan. You can see in the photo how it reeked of elegance.  It was across the street from the multi-leveled, infamous Show World Center (straight). Both were big Mafia joints, as has been well documented to death, but I can speak from personal experience, as I actually worked a few live sex shows at the straight Show World. (I had to get my pay — in hard cash — from Vito, the epitome of class.)

About every 4-6 months, I would get real horny and exhibitionistic. I had discovered the best and cheapest place to indulge those two kinks was Show Palace. Once you paid your admission (something like five or maybe ten dollars), there were no other charges. No fake alcoholic drinks were served so you weren’t obligated to buy ginger ale masquerading as scotch. I suppose you could spend more bucks if you wanted to tip the “dancers,” although tips were usually in dollar bills and I never saw much of that; and the guys offered private shows — I never knew where, probably in the dressing rooms. What happened in case of overbooking? — but I can’t imagine they made a lot of money.


There was always a headliner pornformer as you can see from the above  photo that advertises Carl Thomas. I think he was German and very creepy, although that description could apply to many sex workers. Also, whoever worked on the marquee was clearly not a fan of the star: I think Mr. Thomas spelled his first name with a “K”. After the star stripped, the ¾ stage would go to black and then he’d reappear with an erection and beat himself off — or try to get some money if a guy in the audience played with him. The stars were stationed across the way at the “New Milford Plaza”, a recently renovated hotel that used Busby Berkeley chorines in their TV ads to promote its cheap prices and location in the heart of the action. Unlike many seedy hotels in the area, it had an elevator. The private shows at the New Milford Plaza were likely a bit more private and comfortable than the theatre dressing room cubicle variety. For that and other reasons, prices were higher.

Pre-AIDS, the grand finale of each show was two guys sucking and fucking onstage, just like the sister theatre across the street in which a straight couple did the same. Actually, most live show theatres in Times Square had straight couples fucking on stage then. Confession: I frequented the straight fuck shows as well, but many were truly depressing because after the climax, the woman (usually black) left the stage and had to walk through the audience to get to the dressing room. Her head was invariably parallel to the floor and she was often in tears. When Koch closed gay bathhouses (and the few straight ones), live coupled sex was taken off the bill and solo jerks became the rage (translation: that’s all the live action that voyeurs could find).

Only one hetero couple, Karla & Truckin’ actually seemed to enjoy their work. I learned that they made rounds of all the live sex stages and tried to show up when they were doing their thing, which included Truckin’ ass-fucking Karla. As far as I knew, no other couples did that specialty number. Through another venue, I got to know them a bit. Karla was Dutch; and Truckin’ was very tall and thin with hair to his coccyx. Some guy I knew fucked Truckin’. Sex workers are often as open-minded as their orifices.

But I digress.

There I was one Saturday night at Show Palace, the gay one, remember? The live show portion had ended and the gay porn videos took over. There was no reason to see those because you could rent them for a dollar a day at any video store in my neighborhood. I slid  into the lobby where there were round vinyl settees upon which the hookers congregated. These guys were not the steroided freaks of the Web, who have business managers, accountants and man-groomers. They were generally young Latin or Caucasian kids who were earning a few dollars so that they could go clubbing or score (or sell) some ludes.

I was sitting on a settee listening to the talk, sometimes saying a few words. A nicely dressed man sat down with us. He didn’t speak, just smiled and listened. But his expression conveyed that he was having a fun time listening to the young boys. I think, but I could be wrong about this, that he had his arm across my shoulder.

I looked at him more closely and said, “You know who you look like?” He just looked at me and smiled.

“But you can’t be him,” I continued. “I read that he’s out of town this weekend.”

The guy continued to smile sans speaking.

Soon after, I think I returned to the main theatre to wait for more naked jack-off action to emanate from the stage.

You’ve figured out by now that the smiling yet silent guy looked a lot  like Donald Trump.

I was too naïve to understand that publicists placed stories that their clients were elsewhere to cover that they were somewhere else. When I’ve reconsidered all this, it makes sense to me that The Donald (as was his moniker then) didn’t speak. A physical resemblance can be easily brushed-off, but for a person with such a distinctive vocal inflection, his voice would have been a real tell.

Was it Trump at the gay live show sleaze haven with his arm around my shoulder listening to the rent boys chit-chat?

Would that I had paid more attention to the implications; or if there were only digital technology to record the event? In our TMZ era, such Trumps have their handlers arrange really private shows: in estates or palaces, on jets or yachts or islands.

I don’t blame this guy who, some thirty years ago, got his Rachmaninoffs on the cheap, but as a majority of the hookers were Hispanic — what they were called then — I hope that, in spite of his legendary stinginess, Trump would have stuffed a coupla singles into their g-strings before deporting them — even if they were US citizens.



How to End Terrorism in the USA, Part 1

A nephew of Harvey Milk states in a video that we must all unite and behave peacefully following the wake of the Orlando massacre. This is how people continue to get themselves killed. Passive non-violence? Fuck that shit. I don’t aspire to be a martyr for any cause. (See my post directly below this re gays and guns.)

Here are steps to significantly lower domestic terrorism, which due to may factors — including PC crap — will never happen:

(1) Replace the FBI (Federal Bureau of Idiots) and Homeland Suck-urity with private entities that are not constrained by ludicrous laws that that make them useless. These two Federal agencies are funded with billions of dollars in taxpayer money and are incompetent and useless;

(2) Add anyone who is on the “No Fly” list to a “No Gun” list. If you can’t get on an aircraft, you can’t own or purchase a gun. This doesn’t have to be enacted as a law. Let it be an executive order as a component of the war on terrorism. But, you say, suspected terrorists aren’t allowed to buy guns; that would be nuts! Think again. In 2015, 91% of terror suspects who wanted to buy guns were approved to buy them. BTW, a bill had been introduced to stop this, but Repugnicans torpedoed it. These flatulent, shit-stained queens are  hard on terrorism, but easy on raping  little boys.

A terrorist watch list should also include gangbangers, drug dealers or anyone advocating overthrow of the US gubment; they are domestic terrorists who instill fear into innocent potential victims and thereby deprive them of the pursuit of life, liberty and happiness. (The NRA says that people often are mistakenly placed on terrorist watch lists, so they do not support these actions. Bullshit. If you are mistakenly targeted as a terrorist, there will be methods to rectify this.);

(3) Surveil persons labeled as threats. Visit their homes with advance notification. Confiscate their weapons. Inform them that they are not permitted to own guns. If they are found to have a gun at a later date, they will be imprisoned. For how long? Indefinitely sounds good. And their paperwork will be lost so no one can find them. Out of sight, out of mind;

(4) Deport any suspected terrorists who are not US citizens. It doesn’t matter how long they’ve been here. In fact, the longer they’ve been in the US and not become citizens, the more suspect they are as lacking allegiance to the USA. What if their originating country doesn’t want them? Don’t worry, it will. They will be welcomed as hot shit because they hate America.

I’m sure I can postulate additional procedures to implement but this is a good start. That’s why this post is “Part 1.”

A final thought worth pondering: Isn’t it bizarre and inexplicable that anti-US scumbags hate this country so much, but don’t want to leave it? They shudder at being “sent back.” Shudder away, assholes.


My e-mail to the NRA: Gays, Get Guns!

(I sent this e-mail to the manager of training at the NRA.)

Thank you in advance for reading this e-mail, which is totally serious and not facetious in any way. Please accept it as the sincere document that it is.

In an unpredictable synchronicity, I simultaneously finished reading Dan Baum’s Gun Guys, perhaps the most important and under recognized book of this century; 102 gays and their friends were massacred by a self-loathing homosexual, who was inspired by a hateful and violent religious ethos, and on Sunday, I celebrated my birthday. I suppose things can be worse: I could have been born on 09/11.

I am imploring you to persuade the NRA to adopt a new initiative and to announce it in a press release ASAP:

“The NRA Encourages All Law-Abiding Gays and Lesbians to Undergo Training to Become Certified to Purchase Guns in Their States”

One of Dan Baum’s major points is that NRA membership is not only stagnant; it is declining, as 82% of gun owners are over age 45; and that statistic is from 2012, prior to the publishing of his book. Additionally, the sexual, racial and ethnic member profile is extremely narrow.

Here is the perfect opportunity for the NRA to broaden its appeal, win over a minority group that is experiencing major blowback — often in aggressive, life-threatening forms — as a result of its political gains, and to clearly demonstrate to all of America (and the world) that all law-abiding Americans are entitled to Second Amendment protections.

I suggest the following, or similar suggestions, be included in whatever statement you issue. As I am not familiar with the jargon or terms involved, please forgive my errors in the following paragraphs:

(1)  Choose a pre-gun ownership-training program that is accredited and highly reputable. This is not the time to take shortcuts. We are talking about weapons that can protect but also can kill. You would not enroll in a driver’s education course that didn’t include actual practice behind the wheel of a vehicle, so why would you consider a cut-rate gun ownership education program? Adequate training is much more than being able to memorize the five rules of gun ownership.

(2)  Find a reputable, established business that offers training in how to shoot. If you are unable to find a family member or friend who is well trained, consult ________________. Enroll with a friend who is at the same skill level as you. You can learn together, critique one another and offer mutual support.

(3)  Research which gun or guns suit you best. Do not be swayed by advertising, video game product placement or the latest technology. You are not buying a cellular device that you can easily swap or upgrade. Your gun is an extension of you and should be suited to your ______________________.

(4)  Investigate gun laws that are applicable in your state or locality. What type of permit is available? Can you apply for a concealed carry permit? An open carry permit? Where and how must the gun be stored? Where may you never bring it? Keep in mind that gun laws are indeed local variable. As confusing as this may be, you need to be well informed so that you can respect all laws. If you violate gun laws, there may be long-lasting consequences, including jail time, confiscation of your weapon, or being prohibited to ever purchase a gun again. These repercussions can all be prevented if you do your homework beforehand and respect the law.

(5)  Join the NRA. The benefits are manifold: ___________________________ __________________________. But most important is the sense of community.

I have written this rather quickly, so again I apologize for mistakes.

Even if you disagree with every word I’ve written — but frankly, I can’t see how you would — I welcome a response to this message.

In times like these, who doesn’t need allies in every corner?


“Schitt’s Creek” Is Shit — And Yes, I Can Do Better

When someone criticizes someone else’s creation, the standard rejoinder is, “So you think you can do better?”

Usually, the one criticizing says that’s not the point. And it’s not. Nobody has to be a skilled writer, talented artist or trained athlete to dislike something.

Vis-à-vis the embarrassingly bad TV show, Schitt’s Creek, an evident success on a cable network that no one has ever of: I can do better. The only reason to watch this dreck (pun intended) is to revel in the greatness of the two leads, Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara, aka Eugene and Kate. If you don’t know who they are, whip out your googlies and find out. I’m sure there is sufficient video on youtube for you to wonder where these two comedic stars have been all your life — or, more likely, during the time you weren’t even born yet.

The show, as it is, employs the very tired “fish out of water” plot, which can be funny if approached in a new and different and clever way. It’s not. Reminiscent of the 1960s Green Acres — except that here the relocators are formerly rich rather than rich — the plot is nonsensical. Dad (Levy) owns this hick town, which he bought as a Bar Mitzvah present for his neurotic gay son, who is now in his 30s at least, and mom (O’Hara) is a has-been soap actress who pronounces her “As” so that they are long enough to span the Verrazano Narrows bridge, and, of course, there is the airhead daughter, who doesn’t do much but twirl her well coiffed hair.

Stuck in this shithole called Schitt’s Creek, they live in a motel (why?) and impose their caricatured mannerisms on the yokels while making half-hearted attempts to unload the Creek and to get the hell out of Dodge.

That’s it.

Disbelief cannot be suspended enough. If the family owns a town, there must be some benefit to it, like, oh, receiving taxes or grabbing property from matured tax liens, or why would anyone own a town? Mom reveals she has been a successful fundraiser on boards of directors of NPs, so why can’t she earn a decent salary and do that now (or even rake in bucks on the B of D of for-profit entities?); sissy boy son is no more or less shallow than every other fag in NYC, SF, or LA, who lives quite nicely on no money and no job, so what’s stopping him from tailing it out of hell town; and the pretty stupid daughter is pretty and stupid enough to be a 30-something model who releases a sex tape on the Web in order to gain notoriety and spare change. A sleazy, obscure cable network, like the one this show is on, could make these cartoon characters the focus of a reality show called From Riches to Rags or something equally banal, thus employing an even older plot device: a show within a show.

Somewhere in this season’s detritus, the gay Gumby son — whose acting technique consists of whispering his lines while raising his vocal pitch, his eyebrows and his trouser hems and  repeating, “Wha?” and “I don’t know what that means” — gets a job in a low-rent women’s apparel shop that is reminiscent of a Goodwill store. Although how he gets to and from this place on a daily basis is unclear; another character gave him a ride, but even with a stretch of imagination, it’s doubtful that she chauffeurs him twice a day or that boychik knows how to board a bus.

Here is what I concocted in 30 minutes or less to demonstrate that I could write it better — or at least as badly, and in the same show-in-a-barn nincompoop style. Excerpts are from the episode entitled, “It’s All in the Name.” (Wendy is the shop owner, a part that wastes Robin Duke’s talents):

Wendy:    David, I have been thinking.

David:       I don’t think that’s really necessary.

Wendy:    (ignoring his comment) Things have been going so well since you upscaled the merchandise and décor that I think we need to look at a new name for the store. After all, it’s so much more than a Blouse Barn now. So what do you think?

David:      Well I guess it could work. But we need to be careful.

Wendy:    How do you mean?

David:      Well, it needs to have a cache, but not so intimidating that clients will refer to us as, “You know, that place with the weird name.”

Wendy:    Do you think it should be a foreign language?

David:      Foreign to whom?

Wendy:    Everyone in Elmdale, I suppose. It should be exotic! Something no one expects. How about Arabic?

David:      Uh, I don’t think so. Beirut is not the fashion capitol it once was and caftans went out with Elizabeth Taylor (or you could say Alan Carr – if that’s not too obscure or dated).

(He pauses. Wendy stares at him for inspiration.)

How about amuse-gueules?

Wendy:     Amused girl. I love it!

David:       (Feeling frustrated) Ah-muze-gu-elle

Wendy:     What does it mean?

David:       (Covering his ignorance) It does actually mean, “amused girl” and it’s also sufficiently hard to pronounce to keep the riff-raff out.

(Bertha enters the store. She is a fat, unkempt, mess of a yokel, resembling Kim Davis.)

Bertha:     Hello, there. My, this store sure has changed. It ain’t the Blouse Barn I’ve known since my momma brought me here when I was a little peanut.

David:       (Aghast) May I help you? My name is David, but you can call me … David.

(David does his shtick and sells her stuff. He also recommends a “more contemporary” hair style and makeup, i.e., any makeup where there has been none, applied by a makeover specialist.)

(Bertha returns in a later scene. She looks great, à la Jocelyn — the mayor’s wife — when she got made over. Wendy is there with David.)

Bertha:    Hey, y’all. ‘member me?

Wendy:    Bertha, is that you? Oh my heavens! I almost don’t recognize you even though I’ve known you all your life!

David:      Wendy, Bertha had a consult with me and afterwards I sent her to _________ for hair and then to _________ for cosmetological enhancement.

Bertha:    And it sure worked! I’ve never been happier … on a lot of levels (wink). (Not so sotto voce) I’m having an affair. I met him at a liberry! [sic]. In the eth-o-no-log-i-cal [sic] section. Did I say that right?

Wendy:    What are you saying?

Bertha:    It’s those “ic-el” words. They challenge me.

Wendy:    I mean, what is this about an affair? You’ve been married to Grady for 30 years!

Bertha:    Well, let’s all hope it won’t be 31. Well, gotta scoot. I’ve got a spin class in five.

David:      You seem really, uh, worked up about Bertha and Grady.

Wendy:    Well, yes, David. He is my brother!

David:      (Doing his shaky, twitchy thing) I think I have an inspiration for our rebranding.

Wendy:    Or a seizure.

David:      No, not Grand Mal. What do you think of L’affaire?

Wendy:    Oh, David, that’s not cute or funny. We can’t encourage our customers to have extra-marital affairs. My God, we might be charged with aiding and abetting … adultery!

David:      We (he flails about, puncturing the air around him) cannot be held responsible for the effects that our quality items inspire. If that were the case, the House of Chanel would be sued for selling No. 5.

(Door opens and a slovenly woman we’ll call Eller enters, approaching Wendy and David.)

Wendy:    (Big false smile) Hello, what can I help you find today?

Eller:         Oh, I’m sorry, but I was told by my BFF, Bertha, to especially ask for David. I’m hoping he can help me in the way he helped her. (Staring at David with a ravenous look) I’m in search of excitement.

David:        (Terrified, all twitchy and scratchy again) I’m sorry, but I need to maintain my professional demeanor as a stylist and maintenance executive.

In trying to decide on one positive aspect of Schitt’s Creek, other than the two enchanting lead actors, after racking my brain for more time than this post is worth, I managed to come up one admirable feature:

The mulletted mayor is played by the severely untalented Chris Elliott, and this is the first time I’ve been able to watch him without wanting to throw up.