It's Friday, Ya Beatniks! (Mylot Exclusive #1942)

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Happy Juneteenth +1, Radio Rangers! Flew in from Miami Beach B.O.A.C. Wait. That's not quite 100% accurate. It was West Palm Beach, not Miami Beach. And it was my own plane, not B.O.A.C. But everything else thus far was 100% accurate. There. Now that I'm no longer in danger of violating our strict, aggressively enforced, Internet Honesty laws, I'll continue this 100% honest account with, on the way the paper bag was on my knee. Man, I had a dreadful flight. I was warned. Before we boarded, Amanda Earhart, my favorite Upstairs Pilot and Chief Executive Vice President In Charge Of Mile High Club Affairs, said, "I'm bloated, Sir, so fasten your seat belt, it's gonna be a bumpy night." "Well, yeah. It's an FAA requirement, so even though I don't like it, I always fasten it." "Screw the FAA, Sir! Just do what I tell you to do, hand me that bottle of Midol and shut up! And maybe no one will get hurt." So, the flight sucked. Just not in the way I wanted it to. The whole night was like that. I was in West Palm Beach to attend the annual Mar-A-Lago Juneteenth Party. They are a lot different now, since the Gazpacho Police so unfairly and illegally abducted and murdered that great American Patriot and DonOld Trump's best friend, Jeffrey Epstein. Don't go misquoting me. I am glad that they are no longer exploiting and abusing really young girls but I do miss the heavily illustrated "JuneVeryEarlyTeenth" banners. The highlight of the night was the DonOld himself. Have you ever heard anyone describe what it was like when Elvis entered a room? It usually goes something like this: It didn't matter where you were sitting. If you were facing away from the door he came in through, you instantly knew he was there because there was an electric vibration that accompanied him and you could feel it. With DonOld, it's kind of the same thing. Like last night when he came in, 38 women stood up and said, "I think the baby made a boom-boom. I have to go change her. I'll be back in five minutes." That's how you know Trump has arrived. And you knew you were at a Republican gathering because not one of them said her husband would do it. I was thinking about that later, on the plane, when my favorite Upstairs Stewardess came up to me and said, "Coffee, tea, or me, Sir?" I said, "Well, I wouldn't drink coffee if you gave me a million shares of Starbucks---Readers, don't take that the wrong way, if you want to give me a million shares of Starbucks (Ticker Symbol, SBUX), go ahead and do it. Thanks in advance for your cooperation in this matter---and I only drink tea in Chinese restaurants, so I think we should retire to the private lounge." "The one with the hot tub or the one with the stripper pole?" Just then, Mandy turned on the "No Fun" sign. And simultaneously turned off the Stewardess. "When she can't have any fun, no one gets to have any fun," she said as she frowned and started walking toward the galley." She came back with a minute later with a big glass of a strangely colored liquid. "Here," She said. "This will make you feel much better." "What is it?" I asked. "We call it, the President Musk. It's 30% bourbon, 20% rum, 10% vodka, and 40% Benzedrine. With a tiny splash of Diet Coke for bubbles, color, and caffeine." "OK, I'll try it. What do I have to lose?" Then she gave me a second, smaller glass. "And what's this one?" "The Ketamine chaser. You're gonna need it." That was my typical, average, ordinary Thursday night.