It is a truth universally acknowledged, that if Trump is reelected, we will lose our fucking minds.

Four more years of this anxiety, fear, disgust, and helpless rage would not be endurable. The daily insults to our intelligence and to our very souls are not sustainable. So even though on the one hand we are convinced that sanity will prevail and Biden will win the election, on the other hand we now know that a large portion of voters is rooting for that stupid fat malevolent cunt to finish destroying what’s left of our democracy.

So! What will you do? I want to leave the US, and I’m thinking about what my choices are. Ireland, maybe? I have two friends who live in Ireland, so at least I would know someone. They’re still letting us in for some reason. It’s a beautiful place, and I wouldn’t have to learn a new language.

From Dublin, you can fly to France, where one could hopefully outstay one’s visa and just blend into the background of Paris.

The last (and only) time I went to Paris, I was 15 years old. My sister and I had acquired a pair of French boyfriends who were vacationing in London, where we spent our evenings at a disco bar in Earl’s Court.  I can still remember the jukebox there, which was always playing either “Lola” or “Band of Gold.” Anyway, we met these guys, Michel and Daniel, who wore striped sailor shirts and little scarves around their necks. They were adorable.

Soon, they invited us for a dirty weekend in Paris, and we showed up there with no idea of what to do or where to go. We found a cheap hotel where the proprietress yelled at us contemptuously in French but took our money, however resentfully. The next day, we went to Daniel’s house in the suburbs, where the guys were lolling around while the parents were away somewhere. We watched French TV and one of the guys put on a facial mask. We assumed this was a normal thing for cute French guys.

The guys were horrified to learn that my sister and I were both having our periods! Hahaha! They were beside themselves, blabbing hysterically about “le regle.” Eventually they calmed down and I think we spent a nice day with them. I really can’t remember anything else, but I have a packet of heartsick letters from Michele Girard, his actual name, proclaiming his love and calling me his little cabbage.

So anyway, France would be great and they have socialized medicine, so hopefully I could get my antidepressants, lipitor, ativan, and calcium. If it’s Ireland, I can get some of those bulky hand-knit sweaters, and eat scones and oatcakes and learn to drink Guinness.

Meanwhile, my sister just texted me, “ARE YOU LISTENING TO WILLIAM BARR?” in all caps, and even though I’m not, I can feel the revulsion rising in my chest. What a fucking fucker that fucking bastard is. Four more years of that bulldog warty face will kill me, and not in a good way.

Four more years of Jared and Ivanka, Chad Wolf and Peter Navarro, simpering Mike Pence and the rest of those motherfuckers, no no no no.

Think how much worse it can get! Or don’t, since it will raise your cortisol level, disrupting almost all your body’s processes and putting you at risk of anxiety, depression, digestive problems, headaches, heart disease, sleep problems, weight gain, memory and concentration impairment.

Wait, you already have those symptoms? Me too! France or Ireland, cast your vote. Or submit another viable destination and I’ll meet you there in December.

To launch this new category, The Stupidest Thing Ever, I’m going with “glamping“, a concept that comes with its own stupid word.

“Glamping” is a portmanteau of glamorous and camping and describes a style of camping with amenities and, in some cases, resort-style services not usually associated with “traditional” camping.

Apparently, this stupid practice has been going on so long that the American Glamping Association launched in August, joining World of Glamping (whatever that is) to promote the growing “industry.” There’s also Glamping Hub.

It looks like I’ve been totally out of the fucking loop, as usual, but I’m trying to catch up. As I understand it, glamping is for people who want to be outdoors but don’t want to rough it. In millennial speak, it’s for people who want unique experiences.

Now here’s where I know I’m not a millennial: I DON’T WANT A UNIQUE EXPERIENCE! If I’m traveling, I want a 100% normal  experience! When I went to London in September, I didn’t think, “Shit, I’m staying in a nice hotel in a nice part of the city, right near an underground station”. I didn’t wish I were in a teepee in the countryside or a barn with sheep. I have actually had some “unique experiences” while traveling, such as someone pointing a gun at me (England), a stranger slapping me (Italy) rape (Greece) and a really terrible acid trip (Wales.)

No thank you!

Also, how stupid would you feel to stay in an actual cave that had room service and a designer bathtub? How could you pretend this wasn’t stupid, you know? I discovered the cave hotel while scrolling through the offerings at glamping.com. The destination for this experience is Sextantio Le Grotte Della Civita, in southern Italy.

The restored ancient caves will provide “an out-of-time journey through the traces of the uninterrupted presence of the man in this area, from Paleolithic times to the present.”

The hotel rooms occupy the caves themselves. What separates Sassi di Matera from merely sleeping in a cave is a certain dedication to luxury. Your bathroom may be a bare rock cavern, but you can trust in your Milanese host’s taste in fixtures and fittings: your bathtub is the finest money can buy. Prehistoric man might never have ventured outside the caves if they had bathrooms like these!

For fuck sake.

But let’s say you don’t want to pretend you’re Fred Flintstone. What else is there? The co-founder of the American Glamping Association notes that people have different needs.

For example, if you really need complete isolation, then a glamping location that has just one very unique tent is the place for you.

What kind of motherfucker needs one very unique tent???? The kind that takes an hour to describe what kind of beverage he wants at Starbucks? As if such a person would even go to Starbucks when he/she/they/it/x could only be happy with single origin coffee, reverently prepared in a kabuki ritual by a barista wearing a crisp hemp apron.

So much privilege. So much stupidity.

Are you a glamper? Is glamper even a word? If you have any firsthand (or secondhand) glamping stories, let’s hear them!

Here is Max, enjoying his recent trip around the world. Doesn’t he look dapper?

Thanks for the collage, Max!