I Can’t Decide Tuesday! Kammie or Don?

GOLLY GOSH. I’M ON THE FENCE. THE BIG ELECTION’S this Tuesday and I still have no idea who, or, in the proper English, four-who-um, I’ll be voting.

The two candidates? They’re soooo close…

There’s the fact that Donald Trump’s my pal and we have so many things in common. He’s a billionaire who lives in a mansion on his own, exclusive Florida country club. I live near a golf course. Well. It’s a pitch and putt. In a bad neighborhood. I sigh and nostalgically reminisce that my life’s blood beverage, the 28-ounce Orange Gatorade, was 69-cents when he was president. Today? I visit the Piggly Wiggly and it’s — on sale — for 2-for-$7. I’ve always been horrible with math, but I strongly suspect that 69 cents is significantly cheaper than whatever 2-for-$7 works out.

To.

I’m such an ingrate. Gatorade more expensive than Parisian perfume. I shouldn’t complain.

Since the Biden Administration, a new, tougher breed of dog has evolved, making it more difficult for the Working Man or Woman to fight for tossed-out fast food scraps.

Gas was much cheaper when El Donald Malo was in The White House. I can’t compare grocery prices because, now, I have to fight feral dogs for scraps outside the Kentucky Fried Chicken dumpster and gave up actually buying food back in 2022.

But, doggone it, Kamala Harris has that winning smile. And, she’s a — woman. Certainly, a woman wouldn’t do you wrong, would they? Ergo, think of the good they could do in the Oval Office. It’s probably nothing, but, I do have a small reservation. But isn’t her name, pronounced — “Come, Allah?” Nah. Nothing. I’m being silly and paranoid.

I do seem to recall that far from being der Rain Hell On Europe Fuhrer, Donald Trump had a fairly peaceful four years in office. Whilst being undermined by mouth-breathing slime bucket booger-eating pond scum Donkey Girl Scout Washington treasonous bureaucrats — not that I have anything against them — Mr. Trump did a lovely job of keeping much of the world spinning properly on its axis.

Ms. Harris, as vice-president, has boasted that she agreed with pert near 100 percent of everything Joe Biden’s administration accomplished. Like, about 84 billion illegal aliens not just crossing the border, but dancing The Locomotion as they entered the U.S. illegally whilst pulling down their 100 percent one-size-fits-all white cotton britches and mooning Border Patrol.

Hitler, whom I was recently surprised to learn from my Democratic friends looks EXACTLY like everyone in America between the coasts.

I think “Border Patrol” would be a good name for a Country/Western band. I know we no longer refer to that kind of music as, “Country/Western” and just call it “Country,” due to America’s tragic and growing short attention span amongst the youth. But, I’d like to see, if elected, President Trump introduce legislation to again refer to it as, “Country/WESTERN Music.” Point being? There are Cowboys. And there are Gomers. And we Cowboys dance much differently than Gomers, plus, we politely sip beer, like gentlemen, unlike Southern rednecks who drink moonshine from those steel troughs you get at Tractor Supply and keep company with Women Taken In Adultery.

(Band name?)

Of course, Kamala was waiting for a bus or congressional legislation or her dog to bring back her chewed-up and visionary SAFE-OP legislation.

SAFE-OP.

That stands for: Stop Aliens From Eating Our Pets.

I must admit. I think El Donald Malo is against illegal aliens, or, for that matter, anyone, from eating pets, unless you’re talking McDonald’s because, who knows, a cheeseburger, in its previous incarnation, was a cow and could’ve been somebody’s beloved, Let’s Watch TV Together On The Couch, pet. I do think that puts the onus more on the cow owner because the rancher has to know he’s selling his bovine to a meat-packing company and not PETA.

I do have questions, which, honestly, will never be answered because Kamala just doesn’t — answer — questions. And, again. My apologies because Kamala is, if not a woman, then a woman-esque pronoun and therefore, because of 10 million years of subjugation should never be questioned about her behavior or choice in ill-fitting soccer mom jeans. But, she’s been vice-president for four years. Besides stampeding her staff away in giant cattle-herd sized droves, Kamala Harris hasn’t — lowering my eyes to the carpet here — done anything.

In four years.

Like, nada.

I mean, this is America. People, work. A guy at Midas Muffler can pretty much tell you that, in the last two weeks, he’s installed four mufflers a day, or, 40 mufflers. Forty mufflers, times 26, that’s 1,040 mufflers a year, or, 4,160 mufflers in four years. Kamala? There’s just that one — thought — she might have watched as it floated by about maybe an idea about some sort of comprehensive thing about the epic, Ben-Hur In Panavision border invasion she was in charge of fixing.

Of course, Ms. Harris promised. And, she’s a woman so women, being the superior moral species, keep their promises, right? She promised that, on Day One, she’d show up to work and, this time, pinkie swear, do something productive besides giggling and eating staff taxpayer-funded donuts. I think she abandoned her “Joy” campaign a while back. But, I do know she’s made at least a few people happy.

Like, men.

Which is a demographic oddly enough she has trouble capturing.

My Democrat friends always chide that we should always trust women. Like, Charles Manson wackadoodle stab monkey and apostolate, Squeaky Fromme.

Weird thing? Half the country likes Kamala. But even former California speaker Willie Brown didn’t vote for her in a primary and she pretty much has been appointed to every position, missionary, ahem, included, to every post.

But, darn it.

There’s Trump’s darn mispronunciations. It’s not, “Yuge.” It’s, “Huge.” With an “H.” How can America afford such a hate-filled, goose-stepping Enemy Of Jews, Blacks & Orphans (good band name again) president who confuses “Y’s” with “H’s?” Can you even comprehend the possibility of having an addled, confused, crooked, demented, doggie-poop for brains, stumbling, mumbling, bumbling, hate-filled dishonest head of an organized crime family forever Delaware beach sun-bathing do-nothing comic imbecile on the world stage who takes bribes from foreign enemies who is bossed about by wife and teenage staff and previous presidents and their evil Sasquatch wives, a gnarled index finger inches from the atomic bomb button?

I can’t imagine someone like that as president.

Can you?

Forget peace in the Middle East, Europe, Asia, Chicago. Forget the threat of an out-of-control gout-encrusted federal government gnawing on and tyrannizing its citizens. Forget getting a handle on inflation, crime, corruption, a growing national insanity and finding that misplaced American moral compass. Forget an IRS agent for every citizen.

There’s the Three T’s —

Trump.

Tweets.

Things.

Worse? The tummy-tuck vampires posing as Hollywood’s Who’s Who? They hate him.

What kind of America do we have when George Clooney counts for nothing?

I might lean toward Kamala though, despite the fact she might be the hyena-cackling harbinger of World War III, wants free sex change operations ad infinitum for death row inmates, $25,000 for first-time gender studies students and billions in reparations for the lousy Irish.

You can’t have a president who tweets things.

Oh well.

Trump. Kamala. They’re so close in policy, vision, leadership, ability and resume. How can a guy choose?

Come this first Tuesday in November, the fate of America and possibly the world at stake? Maybe I’ll just flip a coin…