Having worked at McDonalds for a summer, I can tell you that it’s nothing to be proud of. Nothing to be ashamed of, either. It’s work, and there’s some dignity in that, even if the uniforms seem designed to strip you of any you might have. But it’s not a pleasant way to live; if you work in the kitchen, as That Fucking Guy pretended to this weekend, you get all greasy and you might burn yourself by reflexively catching a red-hot bun cover with your bare hand like I did. (You might also get called in to help unload the supply truck at 5 A.M. Sunday morning, which at 17 was my idea of actual hell.)

For some reason Kamala Harris’s McD’s employment has become an issue in this campaign. Well, I know why: Because TFG will seize on anything he can lie about, and the press will repeat his bullshit. I guess I’m doing it too. This is the problem he poses: To talk about him, even by way of fact-checking, is to amplify him.

Lately I have often found myself shouting at the screen when I see him. “Why?” I say. By which I mean, must we see him? Wouldn’t it be better just to say he lied without showing the lie, which has a way of sticking in your head even when you know it’s false?

But I guess that’s asking too much of our media, which after all have bills to pay like everybody else. Generally people get the media they deserve, which does not speak highly of America in 2024.

One thing we can’t seem to get enough of today is Arnold Palmer’s penis, which is suddenly the most talked-about schlong in all the land. Before this Arnie was best known as apparently the first guy who thought of mixing iced tea with lemonade. I am now picturing him mixing his beverage with his legendary dangling member, and who do I blame for making me think of this? You know who.

I’m going to go wash my brain out with soap. I’’ll be back when and if I feel clean again.