NOTE: This blog originally appeared almost exactly a year ago in this space (Aug. 26, 2015), and I found it worth rereading, for its foolishness and its wisdom both. My grandfather appears to be keeping a stiff upper lip, in any case. —ed.
No (further) blogging about Trump.
No watching Trump on TV, no reading about Trump in the newspaper.
No talking about Trump at the dinner table.
No laughing about Trump at our drinking parties.
No Trump, no way, no how.
Actually, it will be like it was at my striving steel-executive Republican grandfather's house, where "Roosevelt" was a forbidden word throughout the 1930s.
You can say whatever you want in my house, including all words that rhyme with Chicago streets Paulina, Melvina and Lunt.
But I'm a striver too. And I strive to live in a country—or at least pretend I live in a country—where we don't make, nor even discuss making, our tackiest television celebrities into heads of state. So if you wanna talk about Trump around here, you can take it outside.
On that, at the very least, I think my grandfather and I would certainly agree.