Diary of a Freaked Out Liberal

"My Facebook laments have drawn ire from an alt-right nut who is calling me a pussy faggot worthless liberal scumbag. I expect better from my cousin, but he had a down year last year and is entitled to blame the leveling off of his portfolio value on my plea to preserve Social Security."
By Rich Herschlag,

Four hours into the Trump administration and I am still breathing. There are no mushroom clouds seen or heard from my front lawn. My grown daughters are still covered by our family health insurance. The tap water is still drinkable. We have not invaded Belgium. I still have clients, as far as I know. The cat is still wasting away on the window sill. Huff Post news feeds are still coming in over my iPad. My Latino friends are still living down the street. I feel a little woozy but all in all a lot better than I had expected to. I can only conclude the Jack Daniel’s, Prozac, and medical marijuana are all starting to kick in.

Six hours in and I’ve gotten very little consulting work done. My Facebook laments have drawn ire from an alt-right nut who is calling me a pussy faggot worthless liberal scumbag. I expect better from my cousin, but he had a down year last year and is entitled to blame the leveling off of his portfolio value on my plea to preserve Social Security. Before I can fully explain that I’m basically a practical centrist who lionizes FDR, a half dozen internet trolls intercede to inform me that Franklin Delano Roosevelt needlessly got us into World War II, vastly prolonged the Great Depression and is, like me, a pussy faggot worthless liberal scumbag. The marijuana is wearing off a bit so I light up another joint and decide to clean the cat’s litter box.

Eight-and-half hours in and I can neither look directly at the inaugural hoopla on MSNBC or look away. I catch a snippet of the inaugural speech replay and learn that beginning today America will start winning again. I wonder by how much. Will we score first with a 70-yard reception in the opening minutes, or will it go to overtime and end with a 34-yard field goal? I pop two Excedrin Migraines and get a text from my older daughter that she’s travelling a hundred miles to attend one of the protests tomorrow and has also signed up to work for Planned Parenthood. I tell her great job and post something about it on Facebook. I am called a baby killer by a dude whose cover photo is a shot of G. Gordon Liddy. I concede that not only does life begin at conception but that it probably begins at the hand-holding stage.

The response to this is swift and overwhelming. A friend of a friend of a friend of a friend updates her status to tell me I am a snarky castrated man bitch whom Jesus Christ will personally roast on a spit in hell for eternity. A writer whose cover photo is a shot of Robert E. Lee offers to spread the lighter fluid. The two of them seem to hit it off in a thread the goes on for a quarter mile, eventually concluding that my primary goal in life is to confiscate their firearms.

Eleven hours in and my wife is hysterical. President Trump has signed an executive order precipitating the crippling of the Affordable Care Act, and my wife is terrified her thyroid cancer several years ago will disqualify her from health insurance due to the preexisting condition. I explain that unraveling this complex law will in reality take months and that during this time the two of us will sort it out thoughtfully as we always do. She believes what I’m saying but I’m not so sure I do. I glance at my iPad and see that at least a dozen people I’ve never met or heard of before have now jumped on the bandwagon and called me a communist, socialist, Islamic camelhumper cocksucking ISIS-homo semen stain on the pavement. Then I realize I went to sleepaway camp with one of them. I scour the back of the small bathroom medicine cabinet for leftover Xanax along with the Oxycontin from my root canal in 2014 and gulp it all down like PEZ.

Thirteen hours in and I realize I haven’t slept in about 36 hours. I stare bug-eyed at a Rachel Maddow rerun and convince myself to get up off the couch and mix a cocktail of Advil, sublingual melatonin, Valerian root, Sominex, Merlot, and Excedrin PM. It kind of works and I am in and out of slumber for an unknown period as various talking heads analyze Trump’s wardrobe and parse one of his presidential ball speeches like it was the Talmud.

As I regain consciousness I recall a series of interconnected dreams in which Kellyanne Conway penetrated each of my orifices with a variety of sharp surgical instruments. In at least one of the dreams she is interchangeable with Ann Coulter as well as with my cousin who called me a pussy faggot worthless liberal scumbag. A quick look at the PC in the foyer reveals that my Facebook page has now completely blown up and someone from Arkansas whose cover photo is a shot of Joseph Goebbels has apparently located my home address and is coming over to anally rape me. He adds that I will thank him and beg for more once Trump’s economic agenda succeeds.

I am groggy and slam down a Red Bull from the fridge. I am not proud of myself and wonder if for the rest of my days I will be embroiled 24/7 in a series meaningless internet Trump-centric flame wars, going to bed only with the help of heavy narcotics and arising only with the aid of dangerous stimulants. And then the answer comes to me—Yes.

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