Ain't buyin' it!

So, here I am stuck in the eddies and backwaters of a life prepping for retirement. Work abounds with challenges and unparalleled opportunities to excel on the bell lap of my professional life, political events are whizzing past my ears like rounds in a firefight, the war with anti-fa is heating up, and all I can do is squeeze a few moments out of a Sunday afternoon when I should taking a nap.

(Hey, I did say I was prepping for retirement, right?)

Anyway, a while back in the recent mists of time, these two folks brought out what has been billed as the ultimate tell-all of the train wreck that was the Clintoon campaign:

Well, I was all over that like flies on a steaming turd loaf..until I saw the authors (Jonathon Allen, Amy Parnes) interviewed on the Fox Business News' Kennedy show about a week ago.

Their undynamic personalities coupled with the fact that I could not find anything on wiki about them and little else on the internet except a conflation of Jonathan Allen with a mid-level NFL player and a stock bio for Ms Parnes and an article about what she wears to work.

As the title of the post implies, I am passing on an opportunity to wring out my PayPal account for a copy of this political bodice-ripper. Nothing personal, but the interview and disclosures, teases, and snippets from the book and the authors' personalities did not exactly explode across the TV screen like a Mt Pinatubo eruption. Additionally, they seemed as though they felt a bit sorry for the woman who was -- without a doubt -- the most documented and least honest individual to ever run for POTUS. All in all, the interview left me as cold as a chilled plate of liver aspic.

So, if you're in the throes of putting together a steamer about how Madame Hog Flanks blew the big one, let me make a recommendation. Throw out all of the sympathetic anecdotes and cutesy pie shit. Lose the maudlin end-of-an-era summation and flush the treacly sentimentality down the crap chute.

Most of us want verifiable tales of a shrieking psycho-bitch hurling flower pots, tea services, chairs, ottomans, couches, andirons, and coal scuttles across the room at husbands, aides, interns, SS agents, and the hired help. A bonus would be any narratives or pictures of Clinton ending up the evening face down on the carpet in a pool of her own vomit sleeping off a Pentobarbital buzz.

Also, We would pretty much shell out for anything rife with gossip about the incompetence of Mook and Podesta and Palmieri and/or them in a four-way with some doe-eyed ingenue or farm animals. (Pictures of Clinton or Podesta wearing strap-ons and mercilessly back-dooring Mook or them watching Mook get fellated by a rhino would be a welcome treat. Stories/pictures/videos of either Clinton being urinated upon by Russian hookers or Putin would be a real plus!) A real top attraction would be irrefutable evidence that that $13,000-coat-wearing bag lady put out a hit on that kid from Omaha for leaking the emails to the guy in the Peruvian (or Ecuadorian or Uruguayan) embassy.

So, unless you got any of that, I will be doing my imitation of that Southern California city where the Rose Bowl resides: Pasadena.

Prediction? Tanks immediately; B. Dalton remainder pile by Christmas!