Culture Editor Simon Moya-Smith says there's little difference between a primetime boxing match and the first presidential debate - lots of training and money and showboating.

Courtesy globalresearch.ca

Culture Editor Simon Moya-Smith says there's little difference between a primetime boxing match and the first presidential debate - lots of training and money and showboating.

Moya-Smith: Clinton, Trump, And Spit Buckets

Right now, somewhere in America, Anthony Weiner is taking another dick pic.

In New York, however, earlier today, I imagine Hillary Clinton was popping throat lozenges like a Vicodin addict, and Donald Trump was pulling on his fingers because he’s convinced that if he does this twice daily for 30-minute intervals, his puny digits will stretch and the jokes will cease.

But he’s wrong. The jokes will never cease, and his fingers will never grow, and Clinton will keep on coughing for reasons unknown (to us, anyway), and Weiner will snap pic after pic after pic of his dick – because if there’s anything he loves more than sexting strangers it’s seeing his phallic name in headlines for doing so.

There’s been an overwhelming shared and looming sense of loss and fear in this country since Bernie Sanders dropped out of this rotten presidential race at the Democratic National Convention in July. How did the fracking lady and the reality television shill make it this far?

“How could it be that these two are the best America has to offer?” a man muttered into his Lefthand Milk Stout at a pub here in Denver recently. He looked like a sports fan who has lost all hope in his team. So I bought him another beer and said, “Hey, at least we’ve still got legal weed and ice cream, huh?” That cheered him up a bit, I think.

I was recently at a local pot dispensary on the west side where they’ve got tightly-rolled joints and edibles that would calm a rhino, or at minimum, Chris Christie.

But that’s another story for another day. About the debate:

No matter which of the two left standing dons the American crown and rips the “For Sale” sign off the White House lawn in November, one thing is for certain: more pipelines are on their way.

And how could they not be? Both Clinton and Trump are pro-drilling. (They are also both pro-death penalty.) Rich, white versus rich, white. Right. One refuses to release his tax statements, the other her high-priced speeches. Indeed.

And as Clinton calls for more regulations of these leaky, piercing pipelines, Trump wants to penetrate harder, faster, deeper. And there is no safe-word Trump understands – in any spoken language. (“Money!” maybe?) No. He can only muster an atmospheric discharge to physical threats, like when that protester rushed the stage at a rally in Ohio last March. He gripped the lectern like a frightened child grab’s his mother’s leg. (Or at least that’s what it looked like because, you know, his baby hands and all.)

And, since we’re on the subject, what is the difference between invasive pipelines and the European invasion of our shores in the centuries of yore? Not much: Encroachment. Bigotry. Vicious dogs. The threat of disease and destruction. If the Dakota Access Pipeline were a person, its name would be Christopher Columbus. … Or maybe Andrew Jackson. I despise those goblins equally.

Well, CNN just reported that Clinton and Trump are “in a dead heat” in the polls. That can’t be a compliment to Clinton. To be tied with a racist, a braggart, and a bastard. Jeezus.

Millions of Americans – and even people across the globe – are expected to tune-in to the American shit show we’re calling the presidential race. Millions more will probably slowly pass the tube, on their way to better things, just to take a glimpse of the fiery wreckage happening on primetime TV. Or maybe it’s a pay-per-view boxing match between two heavyweight celebrity fighters. Both millionaires. Trained to the teeth. Shit-talking all their way to the ring. The rich and famous there in designer wear. Nobody likes to see jabs. We want right hooks! Uppercuts! We want blood! “I got a lot of money running on this. Don’t balls this up,” I imagine a high-roller donor blurting, and then he’s back to quaffing cocktails and texting mistresses.

Oh well. So I have an active imagination. And it’s all a joke anyway. And I know one thing, I didn’t make it one. When something as serious as the U.S. presidency becomes a laughing matter for the world to balk at, then the only thing to do is to get some weed and ice cream and make your bets. And vote in November. In the meantime, enjoy the show.

Simon Moya-Smith

Simon Moya-Smith

Simon Moya-Smith, Oglala Lakota, is the Culture Editor at Indian Country Today. Follow him on Twitter @SimonMoyaSmith.

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Moya-Smith: Clinton, Trump, And Spit Buckets

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