Tragedy Strikes Sharp Like a Cobra’s Venom’d Teeth

I had a stupid day with a lot of poop in it, the work kind as well as the baby kind, which Trombone adorably refers to as “poot!” and I was debriefing with the television. Stopped on a show called “Crowned: The Mother of All Beauty Pageants.” Watched while several mother-daughter pairs presented themselves to a trio of judges, smiling big, horsey smiles and rapping whitely, despite being black (some of them.) (As SA put it from the kitchen, When was the last time an actual rap artist rapped ‘ blah blah blah and I’m here to stay / blah blah blah in the USA!’ I ‘m thinking it was 1982! Grahhhhhhh!)

There are the Blonde Bombshells, the Redheaded Bombshells, the Reigning A’s. And my favourite: the team called “Silent But Deadly.” (because, you know, we are, like, new to beauty pageants, so we are silent.) I am guessing, because I will never, ever, ever, ever,
ever,

ever
sit through this bull tweedy again, that they go to a house and learn how to explore their inner and outer beauty queens.

“We think that you have somewhere to get. So – you’re safe,” said the dark haired judge to the less shitty contestants. All except for the Blonde Bombshells, who were instructed to de-sash the Reigning A’s.

Please, please let there be less poop in the world tomorrow. Thank you.