Punderstruck: An Autobiography

I am so tired.

I wish I had the drive, but I just don’t.

I’m not sure when that shifted.

I was gearing up for success.

But I lived life in the fast lane.

And then I crashed.

We think success is automatic,

That we all have that spark,

A stroke of genius.

But when you’re in a clutch,

You have to stick it out,

Because those are the brakes.

You think everything is running smoothly,

Then something went wrong and you piston your pants.

It happens. Let coolant heads prevail.

Take the alternator route.

Drive on.

Bob Mueller: Master of Surprise

Bob Mueller likes to surprise people. He shows up early in the morning and scares people. I like Bob Mueller.

I like to imagine that Bob Mueller learned everything he knows about investigations from Inspector Clouseau. That, of his ample budget, he spends about 75% of that on costumes.

I like to imagine that, at that airport, Ted Malloch was just asking the lady at the counter if he could get a seat upgrade. “It sure is nice to have the extra leg room!” he observes to her, smiling.

And she looks up, and below the curly brown bangs are those deep, penetrating eyes, the aquiline nose, the strong jaw, and before Ted even registered what that all added up to, Bob Mueller had him cuffed and said, “Sorry, buddy, you’re gonna miss your flight.”

I like to imagine that Paul Manafort was sitting at home in his den (which I imagine looking rather like the den in the Brady Bunch house), sipping coffee and observing to Mrs. Manafort that it looks like old Mrs. Mathers is selling her house.

“That poor dear,” says Mrs. Manafort. The maid enters the room, dusting the books and odd bric-a-brac spread across the built-ins.

“Well, Mrs. Manafort,” Paul says affectionately, “Perhaps we should send her a casserole.”

“Or perhaps,” says the maid, “a salad with… RUSSIAN dressing?” And sure enough, the maid wasn’t the maid at all.

‘but,’ cries paul, ‘you can’t be mueller! we had a torrid affair!’

he saw it was all a ruse. all a ruse from the start.

I like to imagine that one day, in the near future, Donald Trump will be sitting in the Roosevelt room with his closest advisers. He’s comfortable, settled into a chair that sinks deep and soft, his Diet Coke there, to his left. He moves it to the right.

“I’m glad you all can make it,” he says, “to, uh, to this, this unbelievable meeting. Believe me, folks, we’ve got the most unbelievable staff here tonight. They say we don’t, but we do. Mike, Mike! Indiana misses you, Mike!”

Mike Pence looks up to the president and smiles that fake, dead smile he uses when he’s secretly imaging himself walking into a room while “Hail to the Chief” plays.

“We, you know, we’ve got Scott Pruitt, great guy, EPA, environment, coal jobs, I’m a smart guy, nuclear.”

Scott discretely nudges the Exxon Mobile lobbyist further under the table with his foot and grins.

“And of course, my daughter, Ivanka, beautiful woman, you know, if she weren’t my daughter.” And Donald reaches out a hand to pet her arm. But, before he knows what’s happening, he feels the cold slap of metal on his wrist.

Ivanka pulls off the blonde wig to reveal silver hair, and now the President can see for the first time, that underneath all that makeup…

‘but,’ cries donald, ‘you can’t be mueller! we had a torrid affair!’

he saw it was all a ruse. all a ruse from the start.

My TrekDick Is None of Your Business

I’m going to do something I almost never do. I’m going to talk about Star Trek on the internet.

I love Star Trek. If I could afford to get a tattoo of Captain Janeway riding a photon torpedo a la Major Kong in Dr. Strangelove, I would have it all across my back and feel no regrets. But I don’t talk about it on the internet.

Weird shit happens when you talk about Star Trek on the internet. Everyone treats the damn thing like a dick measuring contest. They whip it out like a Horga’hn statue and expect you to ooh and ahhhh over its wonders. A shaft, two moons circle.

And it’s not like I can’t compete in that dick measuring contest; I can, and I think I’d hold my own. Particularly if the conversation wound its way to DS9, the series that was just one “Tragic Death of Miles and Keiko O’Brien in Episode 2” away from perfection.

I just feel I shouldn’t have to.

Quite frankly, my TrekDick is none of your business. I shouldn’t have to know the name of Christopher Pike’s horse so you’ll listen to my rant about why Keiko is literally the worst character in Star Trek. And you shouldn’t have to be interrogated about the origins of the Romulan alphabet to tell me you think it was Sela.

shit, you might have a point, the worst character in star trek is probably sela.

Look, if you think Bajor is in the Gamma Quadrant, you can still have an opinion on Kira Nerys. You don’t have to be Memory Alpha to think B’Elanna Torres is problematic and you’d love to see a Latina without an anger problem in Voyager.

Everyone gets to have an opinion, even filthy casuals.

That said, check out how big my TrekDick is. The horse’s name was Tango.