PrintBiden's really losing it
I'm old, and I'm losing it. That's what happens when you're tickling 67.
But Joe Biden — man, he's really losing it. And he's tickling 78.
I go into a room, forget why I went there, and then have to return to my starting point so I can re-board my clickety, clackety train of thought. Amazingly, this works. For now.
But poor, addle-pated Joe — his train of thought has left the station. And it ain't coming back, Jack, any more than my wobbly knee cartilage.
That's my future, what Joe Biden's going through now — and it scares me. My mind has apparently joined a daunting list of organs that require more time than ever to fulfill their unique purpose, if they even work at all.
For instance, I'm increasingly deaf, courtesy of a middle-ear tumor and a lifetime of using power tools. At work, people "sneak up" on me, and I jump when I see them, especially if they touch my shoulder first. I don't hear them coming, I'm startled, and there's always a twinge of anger before I'm smiling in embarrassment. That anger, that's new — that's an age thing.
When Joe Biden gets startled, especially by a confrontational question, he just loses it. First Biden gets that twinge of anger — like anyone would, feeling attacked — but then, instead of taking a moment to calm himself, he opens his mouth. And a varied and fulsome word salad pops out.
I must admit, I've smiled at adversaries while saying vile, unworthy things in my inner voice. Luckily, my pre-frontal lobe, the portion of our brain that manages impulse control, has almost always kicked in and redirected my thoughts to "Conflict Resolution." Biden's impulse control is MIA, the victim of old age and two brain surgeries. He thinks it; he says it.
Biden's told various U.S. citizens they were fat; full of malarkey; and lying, dog-faced pony soldiers. Yes, he's used "lying, dog-faced pony soldier" twice. Once would have been enough for me, but then again, I'm only 66.
Biden has memorably challenged potential voters to I.Q. tests and push-up competitions, going so far as to opine that he'd like to take Pres. Trump out back behind the gymnasium and beat the tar out of him, much like how a young Joe handled Corn Pop, that bad, black, and possibly imaginary dude at Biden's local pool.
Too funny! Physiologically, I'm a mess, and I look it. But I'm 6 ft., 200 lbs., and more than angry enough about the state of our union to wipe the basement floor with Amtrak Joe. Meanwhile, President Trump is taller, heavier, and much more vigorous and determined than I. Should a fistfight break out at one of the presidential debates, folks, bet the house on Trump.
More recently, Biden demonstrated a common trait of the newly senile: free association. I once, while buying flowers, ran into a newly widowed man. Before I knew it, my freestyle rap on flowers had segued into snarky remarks about excessive floral arrangements at funerals. My pre-frontal cortex simply let me down, left me red-faced for weeks. Free association.
A couple days ago, Joe Biden got asked a tough question by a black reporter, and he free-associated. "Are you a junkie?" he angrily asked Errol Burnett, after first wondering how much Burnett would like getting drug-tested. Seems Joe Biden sees a male black American, and his first association is "drug addict." This makes sense, seeing as Biden's on the record contending that poor kids are just as bright as white kids. If my pre-frontal lobe's fallible, Sleepy Joe's is asleep at the switch.
How am I coping as my mental and physical disintegration continues apace? Well, I rely on my family, my friends, and an inner peace born of a life lived fully and genuinely, albeit not always artfully. My peeps forgive me, they feed me, they bring me in out of the rain when the lightning and thunder start. Neurologically, I'm slowly transitioning from a golden light brown to a crispy deep-fried, confident that those I love will protect me.
This brings me to this salient question: where the hell are the Bidens? Is not one member of the Biden clan brave and loving enough to stand up to the DNC and say, "¡No más!"? They see their husband, brother, father, and grandfather slowly drifting out to sea mentally, and in public, and not one Biden's willing to throw him a life preserver? How terribly sad.
Let's face it: Joe Biden's no more fit to be president than I am. When the wheels start falling off the bus, the right play is to slow down, not vie for the most pressure-filled post on the planet. And should Joe Biden somehow end up in the White House next January, he'll be wandering the hallowed halls, looking for those lost Fig Newtons while some unelected person or persons run the show.
Me, I'll be wandering the halls of my humble little abode, eating Fig Newtons while looking for my lost spectacles — which will be probably hanging from my neck.
