Three things that are making my pulse ring loudly in my head:
1. I swear, when Anderson Cooper pointed out that Trump’s words were a description of sexual assault, and Donald replied, “You don’t understand...,” I really thought for one horrible moment that he was going to explain heterosexuality to Anderson Cooper. Which, while gruesomely fascinating, would have been more than I could bear.
2. I know Hillary doesn’t dare employ sarcasm, but you know what I want her to say to the claim that this is merely “locker room talk”? I want her to say, “Yeah, you know what, Donald? That wouldn’t even fly if you had been in a locker room. But you weren’t: you were at work. In a workplace setting. Just let that sink in for a minute: you were at work, discussing co-workers. You were there to do a job. So, if you’re President, are we going to have to build you a special mobile locker room that travels with you everywhere, like a porta-potty with lockers, where you can go to say whatever you want, when you’re feeling especially “magnetic”? Or was this a one-time thing? It’s the only time you’ve ever spoken like this, right?”
3. I also just once, for her own satisfaction and sanity, and because I think she’s earned it, really want her to wait for him to finish talking, take a beat, and then just say, “What the fuck was that even supposed to mean, little mister? I mean it, seriously, what is wrong with you?”
Can I have that for Christmas? I’ll give my Lite-Brite, and Creepy Crawlers and Spirograph to poor children, I swear.
Sorry. I now return to ill-advised Malbec consumption.