Parts R me

With the whole country awash in more hope than the floodwaters over New Orleans, I should be moving on from the derangement the Chimp has induced. But the seven-eighths of me that is my cynical half still cannot believe he will actually leave the scene of his eight years of crime. Going on the teevee to lie that he kept the country safe was like a chef ignoring the sell-by date on his chickens, killing 3,000 diners in one day and then boasting that no one had died at his tables since then. I’m not the religious type, but I can’t help wondering if the salmonella in the peanut butter is not a sign from the sandwich-eater’s imaginary friend. Please, let it turn up next in the “non-beer.” In the bars in hell.