He considers turning on the radio, or maybe listening to a podcast. He doesn’t do that, though—because it’s August, deep in the cursed year of 2016, and all anyone can talk about now is the upcoming election. The blonde, bloviating businessman versus the blonde, cackling e-mail lady. Abe takes a little comfort that E-mail Lady’s all but guaranteed to win, but still. What a shitshow. As if this year hasn’t been traumatic enough. Bowie dead. Prince dead. George Martin dead. Alan Rickman dead. Chyna dead. Abe fuckin’ Vigoda dead.
