How to recover from that horrific presidential debate

At one time, this week’s presidential debate carried promise. There would be no hooting frat house audience gassing up their preferred elder statesman. A timer would cut off the microphones of overzealous speakers, which sounds like a charming feature regular people could use when their Hinge dates talk about fishing. Perhaps this would be a political debate for the ages, a new template for civility, a boost of consumer confidence for a conflict-weary electorate.

What happened instead was the most confounding and dour exchange of ideas since Statler and Waldorf cut together their own version of “Muppets Most Wanted.”

Joe Biden sent raging panic through the Democratic party by losing his train of thought, looking confused, declining to collect easy political points and failing to dunk on Trump, a convicted criminal and imminently dunkable human. Trump spent his precious minutes charismatically uttering nonsense along the lines of, “Then they pelted the pirate ship with mangos!” while the CNN moderators were all, “Yes, your response, President Biden?” Meanwhile, Democratic operatives applied for jobs at Ulta Beauty and/or hit the road to hang CANDIDATE WANTED fliers on utility poles in the manner of a child who has lost a cherished Maine Coon.

What to do now? What to do besides stare at the popcorn ceiling and wonder if we really are living through the downfall of this American experiment? Some experiments have to fail, right? That’s just probability and statistics. Look up “McDonald’s bubblegum-flavored broccoli,” I dare you.

No, once again, we need to fight the urge to disengage. We must grasp at the threads of a functioning government as one candidate seeks to avoid prison and the other is ushered into a room for a serious talking-to with lots of gentle hands on shoulders.

I don’t know about you, but here’s what I’m doing to heal:

Botox, immediately. Due to all the debate furrowing, both eyebrows have taken up residence in the center of my forehead, creating a displeasing fine-line pattern resembling the internet monster known as Slenderman.

Speaking of horror, I will begin work on a gothic screenplay about a man with the big, blasty war button who spends every night sundowning. Working title: “Nuclear Toads.”

Research golf handicaps as pertaining to mental acuity and executive function.

Lavender cold compress and incense. Enya soundtrack. Sting, maybe, but not the sexy tracks (leads to more unnecessary confusion).

Google “open convention how works.”

Eye cucumbers. ASMR videos of pleasant brunette women simulating eye exams with blue glowsticks. Miniature ice cream cones.

Google “third party candidates brain worms how bad”

many fact checks? About whether or not doctors can rip alive babies out of wombs and then murder them???

Google “therapists near me Aetna.”

Approach nearby balls of hairbrush hair in the garbage can to gauge interest in candidacy.

Read Florida news for grounding purposes. Unfortunately, Florida news stars a failed presidential candidate who is so uncreative and peeved at the world that he wholly cut arts funding from the state budget. Also, it’s hurricane season and literal storms are brewing.

Furrow.

Imagine a world in which Ron DeSantis debated Biden. Feel a cold rush of haunted air trickle down the arms. Add compelling new scene to “Nuclear Toads.”

Remember, healing! Relax forehead! Drop shoulders! Smile!

Dysport, Xeomin, Juvederm.

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