This morning, Paul Ryan announced he is retiring at the end of 2018, a move that was met with a lackluster thumbs up by a public whose staunch hatred of him is dampened only by the fact that literally every news thing is happening right now. "It's been a wild ride," he remarked, presumably referencing the way that he consistently bulldozed women's rights over his time in office. You may remember Paul Ryan as the cravenly careerist Wisconsin politician and Speaker of the House who boasted a commitment to abusing the poor and elderly that would make Ebeneezer Scrooge blush and financial vision that even Ayn Rand was like "this is too dark." Personally, I'll always remember him as the guy who was photographed working out in a Sears Portrait Studio while running for vice president.
Existing at the intersection of "WTF," "Do not want," and "Oh... hey?" the Ryan workout pictures in Time look like the effortfully constructed selfies sent, unsolicited, by a guy on Match.com. They provoke more questions than answers, namely, "What are you reaching out for? Your dignity? Always out of reach, isn't it?"
Like Jason Chaffetz before him, Paul Ryan is going on the to the greener pastures of cashing in on a legacy of creating hostile public policy by going on television and blatantly lying without consequence. Good luck to him! I will not miss him, but I must admit I will miss the very facile thirst trap I once thought he was capable of creating.
Goodbye to that Paul Ryan.
To the real Paul Ryan: good riddance.
Paul Ryan, a man who didn't skip leg day but never seemed to work on his spine. See ya.
Paul Ryan, a man who cares so much about not caring about people he's created a black hole of nihilism. Thanks for nothing.
Paul Ryan! A man who has been legally dead since Bannon ethered him last year, calling a "limp-[redacted] [redacted redacter] who was born in a petri dish in the Heritage Foundation." You know you're a cretin when you're accused of being born in a petri dish by a human chemical waste spill. This is that thing when even a sentient slime monster is like "Girl, you're gross."
It's true, Paul Ryan is gross. On the inside. But on the outside he's just the right kind of benign collection of acceptable features combined with a semi-regular, largely performative workout routine than can sometimes trick you into doing a double-take. "Is that a Paul Rudd type I spy?" If I squint and ignore my conscience, it just might be.
I'll miss my Paul Ryan double-takes. I won't miss the way Paul Ryan consistently double-crossed his constituents and the American public. I will never forget that one of this democracy's most intransigent obstructionists first came to my attention in a series of weak sauce beefcake shots that would weren't quite Aaron Schock-level of problematic hotness, but would occassionally make me forget that all that dully glistens with a barely broken sweat of a demonstrative workout that functions largely as a metaphor for his own ineffectiveness is not gold.
Anyway. Bye.
