Tom's Bar

On the lobotomy box the babble-blondes kept nattering on like concussed parrots about how wonderful it was that we had a black president. Oh God, I thought, spare me. I mean, so what? So he’s black. Lots of guys are black. It’s a pretty common thing, really. He isn’t a freak, an unexplained natural phenomenon, just some guy who probably couldn’t find a better job so he took what he could get. I mean, if we had elected, say, a giant fronded barnacle from a geothermal vent, then, sure, I’d want to hear about it. For at least five minutes. Or maybe if we chose a hitherto-unknown tube worm. Though I grant we came pretty close last time. What’s the big deal about a black guy?

I figured a black president couldn’t possibly be worse than the white ones. This O’Bama guy hadn’t done anything terrible yet. Good as any, better’n some. OK, I figured, we’ve done that. Now can we watch NASCAR?

Fred visited Tom's bar in Mexico and, instead of NASCAR, was greeted with wall to wall coverage of the inauguration on the TV. Nice, comfortable and familiar bar but no NASCAR. Fred really likes fast Japanese cars but not the hullabaloo that was the inauguration coverage. If Fred doesn't tickle your funny bone a little, you might not want to watch the news today.