Meghan McCain’s face, captured here in a thousand-yard death stare while Brady-Brunched with her castmates on The View and Raphael Warnock, is not a bottle of Mylanta Maximum Strength Liquid Antacid/Anti-Gas Classic. Nor is it a pancake, a Cadillac Seville, a tent, a three-on-three basketball tournament trophy from the Pittsburgh Jewish Community Center, a poached egg, a pair of toddler snow pants, an American Express platinum card, a bowl of cilantro, a spleen, an invitation to Clubhouse, the Wikipedia summary of The Matrix Reloaded, a whisper, a collection of navel lint repurposed as a furry and inefficient paperclip, a read receipt, a hula hoop, Bryan Cranston in Your Honor, a tequila lime chicken wing from the Whole Foods hot bar on Centre Ave in Pittsburgh, a cumulonimbus cloud, a new Killarmy album, a frozen pond that everyone calls a quarry even though it’s just a pond (like calling it a quarry adds character to it or something), an HBO Max trial subscription, one of those hoop rocks with too much air that gives you too many long rebounds, a reconstructed anterior cruciate ligament in your left knee, a color-coded bookcase, Rob Gordon’s “Cosby Sweater” in High Anxiety, the single grit Angela Nissel writes about in The Broke Diaries, the container of grits in my kitchen cabinet, grit discourse, the special grits Jill Scott must’ve eaten before writing and recording “The Way” to make her pronounce them “griiiiiiiits,” a gift shop at the Comfort Inn in New Castle, Pa., a heated blanket, a pack of marbles, an accidentally swallowed burp, or even a short blog about Meghan McCain’s face.
Nope. Meghan McCain’s face today is none of those things. Meghan McCain’s face is just a face. Just her face. That’s just her face, today. Just a face.