“Oh my God, this is too painful,” I tell Ryan, wielding the TV remote. “Do you mind if I change the channel?” “Go for it,” he says, and doesn’t even protest when I turn off CNN and change it to “America’s Sweethearts,” the Netflix series about the Dallas Cowboys’ cheerleaders. It’s exactly the kind of mind-numbing nonsense I’m craving after witnessing the disaster that was the presidential debate.
Once it became clear that no one really cared that the Republican nominee is a convicted felon, and in fact, rallied to support him, I decided I could not waste another single ounce of my energy on American politics. It felt like taking a swig of water only to discover it was your mom’s vodka on the rocks and mostly backwash at that: the slimy, residual liquid at the bottom of the glass with little bits of lemon pulp that are too nasty to swallow so you have to run to the sink and spit it out. How in the world is this our new reality? What the debates revealed is that on the other side of the dictator coin there is a horse that no one wants to bet on.
It is painfully clear he is not only unfit to win this race, but he is ready to be put to pasture. It pains me to write these words, but the simple fact is that Biden is too damn old. The simple adage “quit while you’re ahead” seems blatantly obvious.
My own parents are the same age as Biden, in their early 80s. My dad, who is 83, has maintained an insanely high level of physical and mental fitness. Ov.
