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Posts Tagged ‘Television’

Welcome, everyone, to the award ceremony for the first National Championships for the Mental Gymnastics!

(pause for applause)

The competition is complete, and we have our winners. Here are the following champions:

POMMEL HORSE: All the people killed, beaten, sprayed, pushed, detained, abused, etc., by the U.S. Immigration and Customs Enforcement “officers” who have taken over Minneapolis, Minnesota. ICE has pommeled them repeatedly.* Congrats to these folks, mostly U.S. citizens! (So much winning! Are we great yet?)

STILL RINGS: Texas and Florida (tie). It takes immense strength and control to somehow avoid an ICE invasion when there are nearly 2 million and 1.2 million (respectively) undocumented residents, compared to Minnesota’s 130,000. How did they manage to come out on top? Their coach, Pam Bondi.

VAULT: ICE (and the DHS overlord Kristi Noem). They manage to vault right over the First, Second and Fourth amendments to the U.S. Constitution every day!

PARALLEL BARS: Kamala Harris. In a parallel universe — one without Elon Musk — she won the election and none of this is happening. Fun fact: Before the election, the right, with help from FOX News, said the Democrats would strip away the Second Amendment, jail us for what we say, drag us into more foreign wars, and cover up a sex trafficking ring, among other atrocities. Huh. Lookee here.

HORIZONTAL (HIGH) BAR: Joe Biden. He was crucified and had to drop out of the 2024 presidential race because he had a bad performance at a debate. Meanwhile, Trump sends the following letter to the Norwegian prime minister, and it’s just another Monday. Ho hum. Seems fine. Totally sane.

FLOOR EXERCISES: These were canceled as senators and representatives controlling Congress cannot be bothered to do the jobs outlined in the Constitution.

UNEVEN BARS: MAGA.

(Left) Kyle Rittenhouse meets with Donald Trump at Mar-a-Lago after acquittal. (Right) Alex Pretti documents ICE activity in Minneapolis Jan. 24 moments before he was killed, with the Trump administration claiming he was brandishing a gun.

BALANCE BEAM: No winners. Only losers. There is no balance, only hyperbole. For example, the rhetoric around immigration that led to the ICE buildup.

JD Vance claims there are 30 million undocumented immigrants in America. The number is closer to half. And they have been painted as rapists and murderers. According to extrapolated numbers out of Texas (the only place that really tracks), the number is 1.9 homicides per 100,000. There are more than 22,000 ICE agents. ICE killed 32 people in 2025. That’s about 1 per 688. I’d rather live next door to an illegal immigrant than an ICE agent.

Here are some facts:

Wake up, everyone! We are at the end of this glorious celebration of the Mental Gymnastics!

We will have a reception eventually in the new “luxurious” $400 million presidential ballroom — which is completely a necessity as we have managed to solve the all the American problems of affordable healthcare and housing, wage stagnation, inflation (2.7 percent), national debt ($38 trillion), national budget deficit ($1.78 trillion), etc.

CONGRATULATIONS!

*Side note: I can’t believe I have to say this but law enforcement officials are not allowed to execute “guilty” people either. We have a whole judicial system to determine guilt and punishment. Good and Pretti should be alive. For those of you saying, “FAFO,” I have a question and a comment. The question: Why are you defending these thugs? (Is it because if you admit they are wrong, you also are wrong for voting for this? Because you knew exactly what was going to happen. Or is it because you too were a high-school bully, and you love the violence?) The comment: Fuck all the way off with your inhumane self.

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Dear Schoolhouse Rock creators/artists/writers/musicians:

I grew up with your catchy songs that aid learning. (For Millennials and GenZ, it’s like the 1970s version of “Hamilton.”)

It should be no surprise that I’m partial to the grammar ones:

I mean, just TRY to get those out of your head.

I’ve been thinking about one in specific lately: The Great American Melting Pot.

And, even more specifically, these lyrics:

It doesn’t matter what your skin.
It doesn’t matter where you’re from,
Or your religion, you jump right in
To the great American melting pot.

Yeah. A bit idealistic, no?

People are actively protesting because skin color DOES matter. (When people say, “I don’t see color,” my eyes nearly roll out of my head. Of course you see skin color just like you notice if someone has brown hair. The key is not attaching JUDGMENT.)

And immigration … well. It’s like people want to say, “That’s it: America is closed.”

Don’t even get me started on religious bias.

So. I’m writing this because I’d really love a revival where you tackle thorny issues such as redlining, Jim Crow laws, Operation Mockingbird, First Amendment rights, white privilege, etc.

I feel like storytelling via music could come in handy here.

I remember when I first truly understood the concept of white privilege. I had walked a couple of blocks in downtown Atlanta and overheard three separate conversations among black people where the subject was race.

I went home that night and asked Eddie if he thinks about being Hispanic on a regular basis. He said he did. He’s been pulled over and asked to prove he’s legal, for example. He’s Puerto Rican, FFS.

And that’s when it clicked: I rarely thought about being white. And that’s a privilege. Now, of course, I’m hyperaware.

Not everyone has that moment of clarity. So I think it’s time for some lessons in your trademark accessible way.

Can you help?

Thank you for your consideration,
Beth

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Dear Friends and Family,

It’s Day 12 of captivity. I’ve gained two pounds. I have to resist the urge to eat cheese all day. It’s bad enough I take my vitamins with wine.

I’m still going to work for a few hours each day for a change of scenery. I’m not a dress-down-for-work kind of gal. Yesterday, I wore a skirt and heels. Just for me.

I rarely see anyone when I’m there. Yesterday, though, I saw the CFO at the water cooler on the second floor and the woman in charge of special projects down the hall. We all paused in our tracks, giggling nervously. The CFO went back into his office, and Special Projects let me go into the bathroom before she continued down the hall. Six feet of space, people.

Later in the day, I crossed paths with the CFO again. Same situation.

Him: Stay on your floor!
Me: I don’t have a bathroom up there. Unless you want to spring for a Porta Potty, I’m coming down!

When I was at my university the first time around as an English major, I won a major award for writing. The prize package included “Love in the Time of Cholera.”

In our house, it’s “Love in the Time of Corona.”

Gideon broke up with his girl Peyton. He informed me last night:

I don’t want to be in a relationship anymore. It takes up too much of my time. My precious time.

Incidentally, I won the award for a short story I wrote called “The Pot Roast.” It was about my weird grandmother wanting raw meat as a Christmas gift.

Last night, I made the dish.

Gideon, girlfriend-free with precious time on his hands, roamed into the kitchen.

Him (peering into the pot): What’s this?
Me: Pot roast.
Him: We haven’t had that in a while.
Me: Yep. I’m bringing out all the hits.
Him: Top 20?
Me: Top 20 from the 2000s.

After dinner, the family decided to play Twister. Yes, Twister. I’ve still got it! I managed to keep myself up plus Dominic. I bowed out when a spin for me would have required me to sit on his head. Let’s not get crazy in confinement.

Nighttime also is TV time. Even “sheltering in place” cannot help me get through the treacly “This Is Us.” I deleted all episodes in my queue, and instantly feel better. (Honestly. It takes itself SO SERIOUSLY. It’s like a DC Comics movie.)

I’m still taking CORVID-19 seriously. Perhaps too much. I got a little worried earlier this week because I had a sore throat and a headache. Insert panic. Then I realized it’s springtime in the South — an inch of pollen everywhere.

Maybe that explains the guy restocking at the gas station. He emitted a small cough. The cashier and I whipped around on him.

Me: How long have you had that cough?
Him: (Scurries quickly away from the loud lady)

Stay safe, and don’t get Corona-ed,
Beth

 

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