State of the Union


Tonight, right this vey minute, my soiled and smelly clothes are in the washing machine, and the state of the union is soon to be squeaky clean and lint free.  I’ve my nightly cocktail next to my computer, which isn’t what you think.  No, it’s not whiskey or wine, but a concoction of water and vitamins with a dash of melatonin to help me fall asleep.  The state of the union is getting ready for bed.  In the morning, I’m taking my oldest child to the orthodontist for round two of this three round process, and needless to say, her state of the union isn’t so great these days.  In the carport there are empty boxes and a printer that went bad after two years, and sometime before the end of the week I must drive to the dump/recycling center and make a deposit.  Yes, there are household chores and work-related issues, and the state of the union is so so.  We had Chinese food for dinner, and I’m bloated with MSG, and my left foot hurts when I run, my back is getting old, my eyes don’t see so great anymore, and when I do this with my left shoulder, ouch.  State of the union?  Sucks!  Let’s not talk about the vehicle situation, or the television that I ordered back in December and that still hasn’t arrived.  Those non-delivery, lying, bait-and-switch, fast-talking bitches.  It’s the year 2015, and when I was in high school I thought no way would I live to see the year, what with hover boards and flying cars and robots massaging your feet, but here I am, worse for the wear, and none of that has come to pass.  Instead we have Google and cell phones and an endless stream of Internet garbage, adding to my A-D-D and obsessive compulsive disorder. Siri, how’s the state of the union?

“Did you say store with onions?”

“No.  The state of the union?  How is it?”

“Did you say state with unions?”

“Siri, go fuck yourself.”

“Did you say what I think you said?”

At least with Siri I know she doesn’t know, and I can only presume that she knows she doesn’t know, but all these other talking heads, these blow hards, I actually think they believe they have the answers.  And that state of the union scares the hell out of me.

Well, the washing machine is chiming a lovely tune, which means my soiled clothes are ready for the dryer.  I’ll drink my nightly cocktail, read for a while, and pray for a better tomorrow.

“Siri, know any good prayers?”

“Yes.  There are Bartletts and Boscs and–”

“No.  Not pears.  I said do you know any good prayers?”

“Did you say good players?”

“Forget it.  Goodnight Siri.”

The state of the union?  It’s what you make it.  Don’t count on Siri, nor the politicians.