Well gang, it looks like the summer of 2022 will go down as the hottest in history ever, until next year.
But while average temperatures consistently top out at over 100 degrees throughout all the land, the scorching, unrelenting, drought-inducing weather is merely one of the hottest issues we have been struggling with this season.
The Thomas Twins. It’s been almost impossible to watch the news this summer without being slapped with the ongoing, most recent antics of SCOTUS Justice Clarence Thomas and his ultra-MAGA wife, Virginia. Talk about two people who were made for each other. Whether it’s Clarence threatening to roll back marriage equality or it’s Ginni urging former White House Chief of Staff Mark Meadows to use unconstitutional means to overturn the 2020 presidential election, the Thomases are a power couple of the very worst ilk — a 21st century Adolf and Eva, if you will.
They need a cute couple’s name, like our favorite newlyweds, Bennifer. How about Clareginia? Sounds like a rash. I like it. Feel the burn. U.S. Sen. Liz Cheney. If ever there was proof of my dearly departed mother’s all-consuming belief that we are living in the End Times, it is now: world-wide pestilence, famine and drought. False prophets claiming they alone know the mind of God. War and rumors of war. I don’t know the actual chapter-and verse, but’s all right there in the Bible, tucked somewhere between a drunken Noah impregnating his daughters and the Apostle Paul recommending marriage be avoided, to evangelize Corinth, Phillippi and Rome with his young male apprentice. But none of these biblical revelations indicate the apocalypse is nigh as much as my newfound embrace of Liz Cheney.
Had someone asked me even as recently as last year if I would sing praises to this notoriously conservative, vote-suppressing, gun-protecting, gay sister-betraying spawn of Dick and Lynn, I would have laughed ‘til I wet myself. Now, due to her stellar performance as the steamy vice chair of the January 6 committee and self-sabotage of her political future in this ridiculous, rogue mob that used to be the Republican Party, I see Liz in a brand-new light. There’s something smoldering about a politician who is willing to trash her entire career to honor her oath to defend the Constitution.
Should Wyoming indeed dump her for a Trumper, rumor says she might ride her transformational bipartisan makeover and make a presidential run. I’m not sure America needs another Cheney in the White House, but if it’s a choice of potential GOP candidates among her, Donald “Burn this MF-er Down” Trump, Ron “Don’t Say Gay” DeSantis or Mike “Thanks for Not Hanging Me” Pence, I’ll take Liz “F*ck Around and Find Out” Cheney any day. Blistering!
Melania Trump. There was a time that I had pity, perhaps even a modicum of compassion, for the former First Lady Who Doesn’t Really Care. After all, she hatched and executed quite an elaborate plan to marry a rich, old, crazy guy, produce an heir, chain-immigrate her parents to the Promised Land, then divorce or bury the rich, old crazy guy so she could cash in and live happily ever after. And don’t forget that (alleged) signing bonus for staying married throughout the first — and thank God, only — presidential term. Otherwise, bet you Mel would have been gone quicker than you could say, “Ew, what’s this nasty orange stain on my My Pillow?”
These days, my pity for her has been replaced by amusement. When was the last time we saw Mel and Donald together? Has Mel’s fire for ol’ Tiny Hands been extinguished? Will Michelle Obama write a book about the split that Mel can plagiarize? Light it up!
U.S. Senator Ted Cruz. Oh, Rafael, you vex us so. You’ve gone from being that silly clown who shifts blame to staffers when you cruise porn sites, then to your daughters when you cruise to Cancun as the Texas power grid collapses, and now to something far worrisome: Now you think you’re a rock star.
For real. Cruz’s recent performance on the American First Policy Institute stage opened with smoke-bomb explosions, squealing guitar riffs and a fist-pumping, blood-curdling squeal. It was all too reminiscent of a David Lee Roth concert without the high kicks but all the cocaine. Granted, Trump later made a similar high-drama, Meat Loafy entrance for his own AFPI speech, but we expect that from him.
If either Trump or Cruz walk on to the Republican National Convention stage next summer surrounded by a bevy of Golddiggers dancers (may Dean Martin rest in peace), don’t say we didn’t warn you.
But that would be hot.