On Thursday night, after an interminable speech by boring young Chelsea Clinton,

introducing her boring old mother, Hillary Clinton,

Hillary finally took to the stage.

She wore all white, like an angel, like a saint, like an erased server,

and she proceeded to talk, and talk, and talk.

For 57 interminable minutes, the grating old cron spake nonsense into the gaping ears of a gullible

media. She spoon-fed them lies about policy. She dropped phrases so hackneyed they ought to have

been roasted over an open fire. Still, the media cheered. No matter that the Bernie Bros made

trouble throughout chanting against her, no matter that at certain points Hillary's face turned

Bilbo Baggins yearning after Frodo's ring, the media, like Samwise Gamgee would try to carry her over the finish line. But she's simply too heavy for any mortal to bear. Her candidacy is an obitross, a millstone. The speech wasn't just boring. It was ear cancer. It was Ebola of the cochlea. She said nothing, and she said it badly. One thing is clear. Chelsea Clinton clearly got

mom's gift of gab. Perhaps the only memorable moments were these, Hillary attempting to look lifelike,

instead reciting her speech with the robotic, uncanny valley creepiness, to which we've all become to

custom. Ernie Sanders nearly weeping when Hillary named checked him, his face actually changed momentarily

as he grinned the mirthless grin of pure unadulterated rage. Hillary glaring at the audience

that refused to accept her seizure of the Iron Throne. Bill glancing around, dazed and happy

at the thought that perhaps, just maybe, Hillary would be out of the house for another four years.

Hillary, talking of glass ceilings, forgetting nobody thinks she got where she is legitimately. The media furiously pleasuring itself to the pleasant tones of Hillary's rocks in the garbage disposal delivery, and Hillary cackling at her own wit, the sole-sucking giggle of the damned. No, this won't help Hillary much, at least how could it? At least half her allies died of old age in the middle of the speech, prematurely aged by the Sour Lemon Oratory. The ratings for the speech must be great. Before viewers died, they forgot to turn the channel. But no matter, there are three more months of this horror. Somewhere, Mitt Romney weeps, he didn't have the courage to jump into the race. Somewhere, Gary Johnson feels a momentary pang of hope, which he then quickly snuffs out with a blunt.

Somewhere, the American people, the people who aren't convinced in their politics by Katie Perry,

or another rendition of the terrible fight song, think about the end.

This is the political apocalypse.

And we're only just getting started.

Happy Monday, gang.

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