By Susan Bankston
Honey, I am stumped, baffled, perplexed, confused, and some other stuff that doesn’t even have a name yet.
I just learned that Donald Trump has been nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize. Yeah, the same Donald Trump who has insulted every race other than his own—namely Old White Nincompoops. Yeah, the same Donald Trump who instructs followers at his rallies to commit stunning acts of hillbilly violence against audience members who disagree with him. “Hit him with a tire iron, Bobby Joe” seems to be how one should respond to constructive criticism at a Trump rally.
Holy crapamole, y’all. The Peace Prize?!
My friend Verdelia over at The World’s Most Dangerous Beauty Salon, Inc., says she’s never been nominated, and she’s a lot more peaceful than Donald Trump. (Well, except for that time she shot her second husband, Clyve T. “Bygawd” Frontage.)
In her defense, Clyve had it comin’. I mean, there’s only so much dirty-T-shirt-on-the-couch belching and scratching that a woman can endure. And it wasn’t like she didn’t warn him 40 11 dozen times. So when he got drunk at her nephew’s wedding and passed out looking like he spent the night in the dishwasher, ending up serving as a large and unfragrant centerpiece for the majority of the reception, she got the shotgun.
There wasn’t a grand jury in Houston that dared to indict her. The women on the jury understood her circumstances, and the men understood that a lot of women in Houston have shotguns. For the most part, that’s all some men need to understand.
So anyway, I looked up how one gets nominated for a Nobel Peace Prize.
By all accounts, a nomination and a prize are not the same thing. Here’s what it says on the Internet: “The Nobel committee invites thousands of people every year to nominate Peace Prize recipients. Hundreds of candidates normally reach the desk of the Norwegian Nobel Committee.”
Okay, that makes me feel a little better. Hell, I don’t suspect any of my friends know the address of the Norwegian Nobel Committee, which explains nicely why I have been inadvertently overlooked for this award since 1956. Honey, I was born with glitter in my veins, and there really ought to be an award for that.
All that aside, I cannot imagine what possessed someone to nominate Donald Trump for the Nobel Peace Prize. I mean, maybe he’d have a chance at winning Fannie LaBoomBoom’s Las Vegas Revue and Bowling Tournament Man of the Year. I could understand that. Employee of the Month at the Flint, Michigan, Water Plant—sure. Hell, I’d even nominate him for the prestigious Pitworthy Hank of Hog Prize from Shorty’s Barbeque.
But here’s what baffles me. The article I found on the Internet goes on to say, “. . . and previous nominees have included Russian President Vladimir Putin, Soviet dictator Joseph Stalin, and U2 singer Bono.”
Okay, so I get the irony. I mean, it’s kinda funny to compare Donald Trump to Putin and Stalin. But Bono? What the dickens did Bono ever do to get compared to Putin, Stalin, and Donald Trump? I never thought Bono was eating out of the same feedbag as those fellas. Best I know, Bono is a nice person.
I bet Bono is mad as the dickens, darlin’. Hell, Verdelia is mad, and she doesn’t even know who Bono is. (Truth be told, she barely knows who Putin and Stalin are.) Okay, the real truth is that Verdelia has been in a real bad mood since 1977, when Elvis died without having married her even once.
In other news, I just learned at deadline that Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia has died at a West Texas ranch. Since I am a polite, well-reared Texas woman, I will simply say that I hope God greets him with all the respect, dignity, and kindness that Scalia denied to others.
In one famous court decision, Scalia wrote that the Texas ban on homosexual sex “undeniably seeks to further the belief of its citizens that certain forms of sexual behavior are ‘immoral and unacceptable,’” like laws against “fornication, bigamy, adultery, adult incest, bestiality, and obscenity.”
That man was so mean that he’d make a hornet look cuddly.
Scalia was so full of caca del toro that I think we need to honor his memory by naming a disease after him. Something like The Scalia Memorial Virus—you don’t get sick, but you do get totally pissed off.
Vaya con your stinkin’ attitude, Scalia.
Friends, I hope March brings each and every one of you giggles on the wind.
Susan Bankston lives in Richmond, Texas, where she writes about her hairdresser at The World’s Most Dangerous Beauty Salon, Inc., at juanitajean.com.