Another Day, Another Dipshit Fired

Rogoff. Never heard of the guy until Google shoved him in my face this morning. Probably some suit who thought he was hot shit.

Now he's out. Like countless others from that circus.

Good for him, I guess. More time for day drinking.

Wish I could get fired sometimes. A proper, official 'fuck off, we don't want you here' kind of firing. Imagine the severance. Imagine the unemployment checks. Imagine the sheer, unadulterated free time.

I'd finally clean the garage. Or, more likely, I'd stare at the garage. Bottle in hand.

My boss needs to take notes from the Trump playbook. Just dismiss me already. It'd be a mercy.

Instead, I'm stuck here. Scrolling through headlines about some D-list political staffer who got canned. While my own life grinds on.

Kids need new shoes. Car needs new brakes. My liver needs a vacation.

But no. I gotta stay employed. Maintain the charade.

Poor Rogoff. Or whoever he is. Probably thought he was important.

Now he's just another footnote in the orange emperor's reign of error.

Good riddance, I suppose. Means less useless oxygen being consumed in Washington.

Maybe he can write a memoir. Another one. About how hard it was. And how misunderstood he was.

I'll pass. I've got my own shit to write about. And probably another stiff drink to pour.

Every day, a new crisis. Every day, another casualty. The world keeps spinning. My headache keeps throbbing.

Just another Tuesday. Send whisky.