The tale of Ricky and Me

If you're acquainted with this blog, or any of my other social media activities, you know I have been on a tear lately.

Railing, as hard as I can, against the regime of Precedent Shitgibbon -- a term I started using more than two months ago and recently popularized by a Pennsylvania Congressman Daylin Leach.

Last week, another week filled with monumental precedential embarrassments, the lumpy, scurvy-valiant, cockwomble got his horse hair in a knot because the capitalists at Nordstrom decided to stop selling his daughter's overpriced, Chinese-sewn schmatta.

They claimed it was a business decision. He claimed it was a political statement. Either way, so what?

I don't know if this fucknugget has read the Constitution, but we don't work for him. Nordstrom can sell hats woven from dryer lint if they choose to. That's the way this country operates you mewling, tardy-gaited flap-dragon.

The incident sparked quite a bit of outrage. And a flurry of humorous responses from the increasingly-funny American public.

I chimed in with...

I know many of you saw this. And started spreading it around.

At this writing it has more than 100 shares.

And if I'm reading my analytics right, has more than 100,000 impressions. One of those impressions includes Ricky Gervais. No offense to Lee Clow, who has retweeted severals of my missives, but when Ricky Gervais enters the fray and publicly likes your Tweet, that's some humblebrag material.

But what was most flattering about my hastily-generated faux Trump tweet was the number of commenters, across all media, who cocked an eyebrow, scratched their collective chins and said aloud, "Is this real?"

That, my friends, is so satisfying.

Years ago, my very scholarly friend and fellow blogger George Tannenbaum, described for me a new literary motif. He calls it Plausible Implausibilty -- a defining characteristic of good satire.

Last week, I achieved some of that.

Implausibly.