Point #1- The POTUS rides in style. A luxury bulletproof limousine with a posse packing a pantload of power, whilst a bum usually relies on his getaway sticks as a primary mode of transportation when not riding cross-country in a boxcar. I’ve seen them congregate in groups with an undetermined amount of firepower and assorted weaponry…….Me: I drive a 2003 Nissan Altima, sans posse and weaponry. Once again, as far as you know. My car is very much like a limo…Kind of… Sort of……Not really. While not bulletproof nor claiming to be, I once had a rock or road debris of undetermined size and structure hit the windshield while driving on the highway and I emerged unscathed. At least physically. I do use my getaway sticks to work the gas and/or brake pedal based upon whether I want to speed up or slow down. Sorry, I don’t mean to get all technical on you.
Career assessment= POTUS
Point #2- The POTUS wears fine suits made of fabulous materials gathered and hand-woven by only the most reliable and highly sought after child slaves that the third world can offer. A bum wears tattered old rags made of simple cottons and polyesters and/or plastic bags collected and stapled and/or duct taped together by less reliable third world child slaves, most likely hired by a temp agency. Some of them might even be from the fourth world. Face it guys, nothing is made in America anymore…. Me: I have upwards of two pairs of shoes, three pairs of pantaloons, and a veritable cornucopia of t-shirts. Some even fit me. Most of them are cotton, but I’ve been known to sport a poly-lycra blend from time to time, now and again.
Point #3- The POTUS makes an annual salary of $400,000. They also have their expenses(housing, travel, sexy hooker bitches, recreational drugs, ice cream sammidges, etc.) paid for while in office. They also can make quite a bit of lootcakes after leaving office through speaking engagements, public appearances, reality tv shows, and scratch tickets.I heard the President gets free scratch tickets for life in any state. I don’t know if that’s valid in Alaska and Hawaii. A bum typically makes significantly less money than the POTUS, although cashing in empty cans and stolen catalytic converters can be a lucrative enterprise on its own while also helping and hurting the environment at the same time. So it’s a Win/Win/Lose…… Me: None of your fucking beeswax dudes.
Point #4- POTUS lives in opulence at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. in Washington D.C. The White House. You’ve heard of it, no? Listen, I can’t tell you 98% of my friends addresses without consulting some sort of internet search engine or using my phone a friend lifeline. But I know that fucking address off the top of my skull. I’ve never lived there or used it as a forwarding address. I may have, as a smaller pre-pubescent version of myself, sent in fake subscription cards to Tiger Beat or Playgirl magazines using that address and a fake name such as Dr. Thaddeus T. Thunderfunk, Esq. But that’s what kids do. No harm no foul, ghost of Ronald Reagan….When you think of a bum you think of a cardboard box, or a tent, or homeless shelter. I shouldn’t say “when you think”, I should say when I think. I don’t want to be presumptuous enough to put my thoughts inside your brain basket. You’re your own you. Me my own mine. But we can agree you probably can’t name a bums address. All the famous bums lived like that though, on the road, unfettered by domesticity. You know that guy from that movie, and that other dude……Me: I own a house that I live in with my lovely wife, and I can recite the address on demand. As long as I have my drivers’ license or piece of mail with me.
Career assessment= POTUS
Point#5-My teacher was a bitch. I mean, I guess you could say I was a class clown. But I always hated that term because you can’t spell class clown without ass clown. I don’t want to be an ass clown, in 5th grade or present tense. But how could she tell me something like that? For making a joke? For mocking my ABC’s, my 123’s, or my do-re-mi’s? For that she pretty much calls me a “fucking stupid ass clown” (her words) in front of the entire class, the teachers assistant, and I think the school janitor might have been there too. Oh and the class guinea-pig. We called him guinea-pig. I loved him. That’s what hurt the most. Shortly after this incident guinea-pig died. Of a broken heart you ask? Maybe. Maybe it was starvation, maybe a little of both. No autopsy was performed. He went to his grave, to meet his God or Allah or Buddha or whatever deity a rodent believes in(probably Mickey Mouse) thinking that his best friend in the whole wide world was a “fucking stupid ass clown”. I live with that to this day.
But that was the ’80’s. People did all sorts of fucked up shit back then. I remember sitting in the Emergency Room having an asthma attack and my mother sitting next to me chain-smoking Pall Malls. INSIDE THE FUCKING HOSPITAL!!! Those were the times, and it was awesome. A teacher could tell a dumb kid he was on the batting end of a no-hitter and no one would blink an eye. Just put him in special ed and be done with him. Well goddamnit, I am special! I will get elected, Mrs. Whateveryournamewas. Then I’ll show you. I’ll show you all….. in my second term. Always think ahead.
Career assessment= I should have been a fifth grade teacher. In the ’80’s.
I heart you guinea-pig.
I’m Bill McMorrow and I approved this message.