Step aside, Martha — I’d rather slap Kellyanne

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It was 1997, and I had a Christmas wish. Just one.


I wanted to slap Martha Stewart.

She was so smug, so self-important, so overly satisfied with her fancy self, well, me being a tad less fancy, I’d had enough of Martha and her glamorous homemaking empire that made all us normal gals feel like pathetic rags.

Just one well-placed smack. I longed for that. Fantasized about the smug flying sideways from her prim little Ice Queen mouth like spittle.

Ahhhhh. Life is good.

Nineteen years ago, when I wrote that Martha column and made my case to Santa Claus about why I deserved this little burst of gratification in the name of real women everywhere, it was sincere. I was still raising kids, working full time, and coaching Little League and cheerleading, and I was doing well to get dinner on the table at all, let alone on china rimmed in hand-painted gold filigree. Besides, Hot Pockets belong on paper plates.

But then the legal system slapped Martha for me. She was nabbed for Wall Street insider trading, and landed behind ordinary, mundane bars in an ordinary, mundane jail, with ordinary, mundane women, and, well, just thinking about that scenario put a bigger smile on my face than slapping her ever could have.

Orange is the new black, Martha… and it’s a good thing!


Ah, but that was 1997, wasn’t it. I get all cozy with nostalgia just thinking about those days… the Clinton years, the roaring economy, dial-up modems and chat rooms, “Seinfeld” and “Friends,” Spice Girls and Jewel, … the days when we hadn’t even heard of the Taliban yet, let alone Isis, and 911 was just a number you called on the phone. Oh, 1997 — you were just adorable!

But this ain’t 1997.

Step aside, Martha. There’s a new girl in town.

So, pay attention, Fat Boy: When you fire up those reindeer and start doling out Christmas presents, I only want one thing this year: I want to slap Kellyanne Conway. And I don’t mean a prissy little bitch slap like the one I was saving for Martha. I mean a full-power, flat-paw, mama bear right hook that swats her and her smarmy perpetually pasted-on smile into orbit.

To the moon and back.

Maybe not back.

If she lands on the moon, she needs to stay there.

Why so much animosity for this sycophantic little motor-mouth? I mean besides the fact that she alone is responsible for Donald Trump’s victory? Because she’s annoying as hell. She’s like a verbal popcorn popper, spitting puffs of gibberish every which way at rapid fire.

Except when she’s not. Sometimes, she goes completely silent, and her plow-jawed face spreads into a saccharine grin that serves as her Barbie doll war mask. While journalists and reporters pelt her with actual facts and legitimate inquiry, she smiles sweetly and serenely, and appears to be listening, but meanwhile, she’s ticking through her mental library of propaganda and B.S.

The nanosecond the other person’s lips stop moving, she spews a prepared staccato stream of twisted twaddle that seems to be kryptonite for reporters. Once she starts babbling, reporters become curiously mentally incapacitated, unable to shake their heads free of her verbal bee swarm of baloney and shriek, “That is utterly preposterous!” and go full-on Mike Wallace on her bony little butt.

Ah, to see Mike Wallace chew her into sugary little pieces.

Right before I slap her.

I get misty thinking about it.

Sorry, I mustn’t get distracted with daydreams. We must keep our eyes on the prize.

So. You know what’s even more irritating than Kellyanne’s speed-talk poppycock? She’s actually quite brilliant. Disturbingly brilliant. A genius, even. She took the campaign of an uninformed, inexperienced, grotesquely self-serving megalomaniac just as it was toppling and headed for political oblivion, completely turned it around, and propelled that sack of orange goo to victory.

Yeah. Kellyanne did that. Her mind is as nimble as a world-class cutting horse, herding reporters around like cattle, this way and that, until the poor beasts are so exhausted and addled, all they can do is stand in the corner and stare.

All that brilliance, and she chose to use it for evil.

Tell me that’s not worth a slap or two or 20.

When the horrifying reality of President Trumplethinskin began sinking in, there was one small consolation: I figured Kellyanne’s dirty work was done, and we’d never hear from her again. But no. Rather than sliding back down into the murky, foul sludge from which she slithered out to rescue Trump’s campaign, that cloying chatterbox is omnipresent. She’s everywhere at once, yap, yap, yapping like a grinning fountain of hyper-speed nonsense.

And it’s about to get worse, my friends. Ever so much worse.

Trump has appointed Kellyanne “counselor to the President,” which means she’ll sit at his right hand, an anointed leader in his administration, and just as she did during his campaign, Kellyanne will absorb Trump’s third-grade monosyllabic grunting and translate it into what sounds like actual sentences and paragraphs.

But, if you listen very carefully and don’t become mesmerized by her pixie-on-speed jabbering, you’ll realize it’s just a stream of manipulative malarkey carefully designed to protect Trump from responsibility for any of the grotesquely outrageous things he says or does. She’s almost ninja in her ability to deflect a line of reasoning away from Trump and twist it, and the reporter, into a pretzel.

So, this is what we have to look forward to for the next for years. Trump’s smiley, scrawny little Ninja mother bird, swallowing the worms of his idiocy, digesting it into thought-free pablum, and attempting to regurgitate it into our beaks. The Red Cap crowd will gulp it down. The press will choke on it. The rest of us will have projectile vomiting.

Nothing but pablum and vomit, for four years. All because of Kellyanne.

Admit it. You want to slap her too.

The line forms on the left.

— Email Debra DeAngelo at; read more of her work at and

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