Put Up Your Nukes

And the demagogue said: Let there be an arms race!

And, heaven forbid, there might be an arms race.

Oh, the power of the word of the demagogue.

Game on, says Uncle Vlad. Oh dear, Christmas dinner might be a bit strained this year. More vodka, please!

It's been years since I've celebrated Christmas in the traditional way, with stockings and trees and ornament hooks buried like land mines in the carpet. Divorce has brought me back to the hallowed Jewish traditions of Chinese food and a movie.

But still, a Jewish girl can dream.

All I want for Christmas is a Trump interview with Rachel Maddow. 

Last night, I watched Kelly Anne Conway, referred to by someone the other day -- quite accurately -- as the "High Priestess of Spin," actually break a sweat as she sat across the table from the left leaning and brilliant and refreshingly unrelenting cable news host. Sitting ramrod straight with her hands folded in her lap (probably stapled to keep her from slapping her interrogator), her fake smile broadening the angrier she became, Kelly Anne denied and justified and filibustered and pivoted, just like she always does. But Rachel kept calling her out. She assaulted her with the truth. She cut her off. She outshouted her in a calm, measured voice -- you know, the kind of voice a mom uses when she really wants to scare the shit out of her kids and then look shocked when they accuse her of yelling. She unspun the spinner. Kelly Anne wobbled like a cheap dreidel.

And -- I have to say my favorite piece was the lecture on the nuclear triad, which Kelly Anne admitted to knowing nothing about while she attempted, in vain, to defend the demagogue-elect's capacity for policy making on the subject. Let's face it; Kelly Anne is smart and evil. Her boss is cunning and evil, but, unlike the Priestess, stupendously uninformed and aggressively proud of it and determined to stay that way. If she knows nothing about something, he knows less.

Yes, I hate to admit it, but my fantasies last night were about the boss sitting in a gilt throne of his choosing and letting Rachel go at him, hold him accountable. Ain't gonna happen. Though he is certainly shameless, he is infinitely less shameless than Kelly Anne is, and it will be a cold day in hell before he lets anybody -- let alone a woman -- make him actually answer questions. In English. Out loud. In more than 140 characters. Not saying it's impossible, but I think I'm more likely to see Santa squeezing his ass out of my chimney.

I know Christmas has become kind of secular, but this year, while I stuff myself with Kung Pao chicken, I'll be deep in prayer. In fact, I'll be praying a lot in the next four years, or at least until the impeachment.

Let there be peace. Let there be tolerance. Let there be no nuclear proliferation. Merry Christmas to all, Happy Chanukah, and pass the vodka, please.