We have, as you have no doubt noticed, been having some real Wednesdays of late. One Wednesday there's a bunch of swirly-eyed realtors and gun puds sacking the U.S. Capitol building, the Wednesday after that the House of Representatives is voting to impeach the president that wave of dipshits was trying to install as Supreme Leader For Life, and then, the Wednesday after that, there's a whole new president. This would be a lot for any day of the week to manage over the course of this period of time, but it is entirely too much to ask of the humble Wednesday.
We did not choose Wednesday as our day to record The Distraction because it's the least-eventful day of the week—that's Tuesday, and I shan't be explaining this further—but lord knows we have been overmatched this last little spell. This week, in anticipation of More Wednesday Shit, we moved our recording a few hours later... and there was nothing. Well, my parents really liked the poem, and my father-in-law was impressed with Lady Gaga. But, to the extent possible in a capital currently effectively occupied by the National Guard, the inauguration of Joe Biden delivered precisely the kind of stilted but acceptably skillful norm-craft that he ran on delivering. And so, with a security that has been absent in recent weeks, Drew and I were free to talk about all the things that have been happening.
Which means there was a good deal of talk about Trump and his associated suite of brain diseases, and the fervid-but-vague conspiracies and conspirators who took up his soggy mantle and all that, but also some talk about the future of the country, or various possible futures. Or at least what's next for Donald Trump Jr., who is currently exploring some truly avant-garde dimensions of public mutancy.
But there are also sports, and so sports were also discussed. I tried and failed to talk Drew into The Chad Henne Experience, we reiterated our The Bills Are Good stance, and began in earnest the process of preparing ourselves for conference championship weekend. We also addressed the Mets' less-disgraceful-than-usual handling of their former GM Jared Porter's odious sex-creepery. Maybe it's all the Wednesdays we've been having, but it all felt oddly fine. What's bad is still bad; what's good, if it's coming, is not really here yet. It just felt like a Wednesday, and so oddly like a gift.
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