Weekend humor from Celia Rivenbark: Moving day for the Trumps


Melania: Donald, eez time to go. Wakey wakey.

DT: I’m not leaving. I won the election by 200 million votes. Everyone says so. Please tell the movers to go away…

Eric: Dad? It’s time to go. Look, I know we fought hard…

DT: Who are you?

Don Junior: Dad, we know you don’t want to go but it’s time. Right, Kimberly?


Don Junior: OK, kitten, that’s enough…

DT: But I can’t leave. I won’t leave. The people elected me. My thinking place told me so.

Don Junior: Yeah, uhhhhhhh, about that….

Tiffany: Hey everybody! Where do y’all want these likker store boxes? Over here OK?

Ivanka: What on earth are those for? Tiffany, could you just, for once, look a little less (shudder) poor?

Jared: I think they’re to be used as moving boxes, pet. I remember seeing a classmate at Harvard struggling with several of them on the quad. He was a scholarship student. I laughed at him.

Ivanka: Jared, that sounds cruel and insensitive. I love you.


DT: I’m not going anywhere. I’m the president. Forever. Period, no backstops, nanny nanny boo boo.

Eric: Dad, please….

DT: Look, I don’t know how you got in here, but you need to get out. Security! Rush! Rudy!

Melania: Ack, Donald. This eez getting ridiculous. The Bidens will be here any minute.

DT: Sleepy Joe? Coming here? (presses fingers to temples and squeezes eyes shut)

Ivanka: Daddy, what are you doing?

DT: I’m mind melding the Proud Boys. They will stop this. We’re going to Make America…


Tiffany: I’m hungry. Where’s the pizza? I’ve never moved anybody that I didn’t get pizza.

Jared: I’m sorry; what-za?

Mary Trump: Hey Cuz! They just let me walk in the front door. Who? Joe and Jill. They love me because I say stuff like how the whole family knows you’re a monster.

Eric: Is that true, Dad? Are you a monster? Monsters are scary.

Joe Biden: Donald? You’re still here? Jiminy Cricket, this is awkward…

DT: Proud Boys! Weird guy wearing horns! Duck Dynasty Guy! Somebody help me!!!!!

Joe: C’mon man. The people have spoken.

DT: Hmmmph. Dead people, you mean….

Secret Service: Time to go, Big Orange.

DT: Was that my code name?

SS: No, but we can’t say the real one in polite company.

DT: Wait! What’s that? He’s acting like a DOG!

Joe: It is a dog. That’s Major. He’ll be living with us.

Tiffany: I got a pit bull on a chain outside my trailer home…

Ivanka: Of COURSE you do…

Celia Rivenbark isn’t going anywhere…


Weekend humor from Celia Rivenbark: Vaccine envy

In the beginning, there was COVID shaming and it was dark, judgy and unpleasant. We learned that we are very good at, biblically speaking, whining about the sawdust in our brother’s eye and paying no attention to the log in our own.

You have COVID? Perhaps you shouldn’t have made that grocery store run. Or failed to wash your masks, like, ever. Or spent three hours at an indoor wedding reception. Yes, especially that last.

We’ve listened to Fauci, perched perpetually on our angel shoulder and have banished the devil on our other shoulder who thinks COVID is all made up like the moon landing. Because, NOT biblically speaking, that shoulder is kind of an asshat.

So comes the time of the vaccine. We are sore afraid this is going to take forever. Verily, we have checked our eligibility and discovered we are No. 184,000 in line, not even kidding. All y’all say Oy vey.

Now entereth the man of the house, who by virtue of toiling daily in the bowels of a large hospital system has announced he will receive the first of two vaccines in a few days. Whither he goest, I will go. Just 183,999 folks later. No matter! I’m happy for him. But if a look at my social media is accurate (and, hey, when has anything false ever been conveyed via social media?) a lot of y’all may be seething right now.

Yes, we have now left COVID shaming behind in the seems-like-forever ago 2020 and have advanced to the second stage of pandemic: Envy. Totally understandable, by the way.

A Facebook near-war erupted when one soul (followed by many, many others) giddily shared the post: “Vaccinated!” or similar. While there were a few “Yay for you’s!” that seemed heartfelt, it was mostly replaced with “Oh. Do you mind telling me how YOU GOT A VACCINE WHEN I’M THE ONE WITH MYRIAD UNDERLYING CONDITIONS AND EVERYONE KNOWS IT?”

Blech. All caps. The refuge of the legit crazy newly disenfranchised Parlerians or, a world away, the sweet elderly aunt who doesn’t understand why people keep asking her to please stop yelling. She would never!

I have to admit, the Envy stage is a surprise. After all, as one picked-apart recent vaccine recipient noted: “Y’all don’t have any idea what is wrong with me! I don’t share my entire medical history with everyone like SOME people.”

Oh, snap! I have to admit at this point, I’m in full Michael Jackson eating popcorn mode. Occasionally, “Vaccinated!” is greeted with a more passive aggressive response, which is one way we know Southerners are in the house.

“Oh,” said one. “How nice for you. Biff and I are in Tier D-5 because we have exercised, eaten healthy and meditated. Was it your diabetes that allowed you to get an early vaccine? If so, Ima go cut myself a big fat wedge of PECAN PIE! HaHaHaHa!!! JK!!!!!”

Of course, we know she is soooo not JK. Can I get an amen?

Celia Rivenbark will find needles from that tree until about July 4.

Weekend humor from Celia Rivenbark: A New Year’s plea for mediocrity

Welcome, welcome 2021!

Please, come in. Take a (viral) load off. Put your feet up. Quarantini? I just finished Netflix so I’ve got plenty of time to talk about resolutions and such. Go on and get comfy in that ridiculously uncomfortable “treat myself” chair I bought online along with all my groceries and a tube of something that’s supposed to make my double chin disappear but smells like a tire patch.

You may wonder why I’ve asked you here, so I’ll get right to the point. As you know, 2021, your predecessor sucked. Aside from the presidential election results, the development of vaccines to prevent COVID-19 and “The Queen’s Gambit,” 2020 was pretty much a projectile poo-show. And while I’m grateful for all three of those gifts, the ledger is still whop-sided, as we say in the South, and it’s up to you, 2021, to make things right. No presh. OK, some presh.

I realize this is a mighty big ask, particularly for a year that lacks the glitz of ending in “0” or even “5” but I think you’re up to the task. You will be like George W. Bush. Sure, many will think you underperformed or even endangered us but, at the end of the day, history will be kind: You’re just a guy who paints weird animal pictures and wears socks with the face of his dog on them. We are soooo ready for that kind of mediocrity. Gimme.

What’s that you ask, 2021? Why don’t I show you what I’m talking about? Thought you’d never ask.

In 2021, I resolve to…

  • Muster more enthusiasm for important things occurring in the sky. After stepping into the cold to observe the Jupiter/Saturn thingy I  realized I didn’t know where “southwest” was. Thus, I missed the long-awaited “grand conjunction” which, says NASA, “occurs when two huge gas giants appear to be together but are actually millions of miles apart.” Which is exactly how I feel about me and Duh sometimes. Bada Boom!
  • Be more open-minded, accommodating and measured in my responses when interacting with people who don’t share my deeply held personal belief that the current Republican party, shredded by Trump for all time and eternity, is now a fetid hot tub bubbling with a mephitic stew of racism, greed, domestic terrorism and willful ignorance. See? I can reach across the aisle with the best of ‘em!
  • Listen to young folks and don’t knee-jerk disparage them like the huge gas giants on Facebook, many of whom I went to high school with. There’s honestly nothing funnier than seeing the guy who used to sell shrooms in high school get all red-faced because he thinks AOC paid too much for a haircut “considering she’s a Communist.” As Moira Schitt might say: “Whither a repository capacious enough to accommodate such betise?” We can learn a lot from young folks. Not all of them, but a gracious plenty of them.

Celia Rivenbark was touched by the response to last week’s column. Happily, the Princess has recovered from COVID. Stay safe, y’all. Seriously.

Celia Rivenbark: Politicians’ COVID hypocrisy is not funny

As I watched Lindsey Graham roll up his sleeve, the needle piercing his pasty, floppy upper arm meat, I seethed. Same for Marco Rubio, who managed to look smug from behind a mask as his Covid 19 vaccine was administered. Mike Pence emerged from his usual hiding place in the hindquarters of his boss to receive the potentially life-saving vaccine and, grinning soullessly, pronounced it didn’t give him an owie.

One after another, Republicans lined up, masks in place, to receive the vaccine for a pandemic they downplayed and denied while regular folks kept on, dammit, dying. Oh, if they would just stop dying! These same Republicans hosted super spreader parties in Jesus’ name and pretended it would all go away. To do anything else might have earned a lambasting from the, er, head baster himself. It was that simple. And that deadly.

As I write this, four days before Christmas, my daughter, who teaches kindergarten in a high-poverty school, is home and marinating in her own case of Covid 19, locked down in a room she will not leave for one week. She has no appetite. No energy. But you know what she’s doing? She’s TEACHING HER CLASS. From downstairs, I can just make out her dutifully drilling 5-year-old’s on sounding out words, telling time and discussing types of clouds. I am gobsmacked by the cheer in her voice, the patience and calm, the forced energy she doesn’t feel. The kids, Zooming from their homes and daycares nearly four hours away, have no idea anything’s wrong.

It goes without saying she is lucky to be able to continue to work without infecting others. So many have no choice in the matter because they have to pay for basic stuff like housing and food.

Unlike the kindergarten students, Republican members of Congress knew perfectly well something was very wrong and chose to do nothing. No. Check that. They chose to make a terrible situation far worse by pretending (A) it wasn’t happening and the liberal media made it up (B) OK, it’s real but it’s not that bad unless you’re very old and sick anyway and, finally, when even that dog curled up in front of the fire and refused to hunt, pivoted to (C) OK, it’s bad but there’s nothing we could’ve done, and masks are for wussy liberals with critical thinking skills.

Not one single member of Congress—Dems included– should have gotten the vaccine until every first responder, front line worker, at-risk senior and teacher got it. As for those Congressional Republicans now embracing mask-wearing, social distancing and handwashing? Well, I’d like to enthusiastically invite them to do to themselves that which is anatomically impossible.

On repeat.

Ironically, after tolerating Trump’s hateful demonizing of the scientists and epidemiologists saving our collective bacon, Mitch McConnell (R-eptile-Ky.) was happy to be vaccinated.

Truth is, after taking months, MONTHS, to come up with an aid package for suffering American families and businesses, Congress doesn’t deserve to cut the line. Even a 5-year-old would know that.

Celia Rivenbark is much nicer in person.

Weekend humor from Celia Rivenbark: Doctor/First Lady-elect Jill Biden

The whole “Dr. Jill Biden” kerfuffle is, of course, ridiculous. She earned a doctorate in education and she should be called “Dr. Biden” without anyone’s snarky judgment.

It reminds me of that wonderful scene in “Bull Durham” where the, uh, experienced bride-to-be asks maid of honor Susan Sarandon if she “deserves to wear white” considering her past. Susan sighs deeply and says, “Oh, honey, we all do.”

Similarly, we all deserve to call ourselves “doctor” if we emerge from a decade or so of soul-crushing tedium in academia. I didn’t get past two years of community college. Good on you, Dr. Jill.

I’d venture to say, if life experience counts for anything, the foolish fossil who got everybody all wrought up in that now infamous opinion piece in The Wall Street Journal should have bestowed upon him an honorary doctorate in dumbass. Everyone could greet him: “Dr. Dumbass, I presume?”

Titles are tricky. Which is why I prefer that everyone simply call me “Your Majesty.” I prefer a deep bow to accompany but it’s not mandatory because I’m not a complete jerk, just a partial one.

Even the newsroom bible, the AP Stylebook, is murky on “Dr.” when it comes to academic degrees, saying “if appropriate in context, Dr. may be used…but because the public frequently identifies Dr. only with physicians, care should be taken to ensure the individual’s specialty is stated in first or second reference.” There. That’s clear as mud now. I remember being scolded by an editor for calling a local professor “Dr.” in a story. He said: “Unless he can use a bone saw, he ain’t a doctor.” So woke.

The cynic in me suspects a deliberate stirring of the pot by the WSJ, which, like all print media, lives and dies by content clicks. Like how millions of y’all had to click to read this. OK, maybe dozens. It’s tough for journalism to survive when so many get their “news” from Parler.

Here’s my point: If there’s one thing we’ve learned from the soon to be former president, it’s this: If you want to get people’s attention, keep flame-throwing and committing bombastic mayhem. Which is exactly what the WSJ did by deliberately running the rheumy ramblings of that woman-hating toad.

The chorus of “How dare he’s” was deafening, the trending hashtags and outrage across social media platforms utterly predictable.

But here’s the thing. When an old fool says something so demonstrably stupid as “Jill Biden shouldn’t call herself Dr.” or “Kim Jong Un wrote me beautiful letters and we fell I love” we should all just sigh and move on.

In other words, let’s resolve in the new year to not take the bait so easily. Back in the day, I caught 60 perch one sunny Sunday afternoon using my lucky yellow rooster tail. That bright yellow feather lure with a tiny silver spinner hit the water and, BAM!, they fell for it every time. Let’s resolve to be smarter than farm pond perch, shall we?

Celia Rivenbark thinks the phrase “beef stick” is funny.