October 20, 2016
Going down? Don’t you wish. …
Sounds like Insane Clown Pussy achieved his usual level last night.
I’d be delighted to report that his performance in the final presidential “debate” will sink him, but fat turds float, and I expect this one will continue to bob around in the national crapper for the better part of quite some time.
Frankly, it seems unflushable. I’d say sell the house, but who’d want to buy with that thing spoiling every showing? Can we just wall it off with bricks the way Montresor did Fortunato? Pretend it’s not there? Do our business outside if need be?
Anyone who was surprised that ICP refused to say he’d take his beating like a man has not been paying attention. He’s not a man. He’s not even a small-d democrat. He’s a two-bit totalitarian. And those dudes don’t go down without a vigorous flushing, and maybe a bit of elbow grease. OK, a lot of elbow grease.
Sadly, rather than get busy with the plunger, however distasteful a chore that may be, some of our fellow Americans insist on splashing around in there with him.
Insane Clown Pussy may be circling the bowl, but his stink will be with us for a while yet. Somebody light a match.
October 19, 2016
When the going gets weird. …
Unless Zombie Hunter S. Thompson resurrects the National Affairs Desk atop a taco truck outside the University of Nevada-Las Vegas I will not be watching tonight’s final “debate.”
I suppose there might be some entertainment value in watching the increasingly deranged Ronald McDonald McTrump shout in answer to every question, “You’re fired! You’re fired! YOU’RE FIRED!!!” Or maybe lunge across the desk and sink his fangs into The Hilldebeast’s throat as she stabs him in the venom sac with a ceremonial dagger smuggled to her by the Illuminati.
But goddamn, I’ve had enough of this for one lifetime, in this realm or any other. It’s like watching Maude trade zingers with Yog-Sothoth on the Necronomicon Network.
“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”
“God will get you for that, Donald.”
As soon as early voting commences here in the Land of Enchantment, I will bicycle over to the polls and vote against Insane Clown Pussy. This may be pointless — Real Clear Politics has HRC solidly out front in New Mexico, and the NYT’s Upshot has her with a 92 percent chance of victory nationwide — but insulting him on Twitter seems to have had little effect. Thus I leave nothing to chance.
And if the GOP candidate should transmogrify into a Great Old One and devour the shrieking studio audience tonight, well, that’s showbiz. Doesn’t mean I have to watch.
If only it were true that whatever happens in Vegas stays there.
October 17, 2016
Some people call this “morning.” They are misinformed.
It was four wheels this morning. Bad.
Herself is off to Tennessee for a combo business/pleasure trip (a lab-librarians’ powwow in tandem with a visit to Herself the Elder), and then she’s zigzagging home via Colorado and Utah (running a half-marathon and maybe camping with a gal pal).
The leaves may be falling, but the roses are hanging on.
Thus Your Humble Narrator was required to rise at dark-thirty to chauffeur ‘Er Ladyship to the Duke City airport.
I dislike driving anymore. I particularly dislike driving before the second cup of coffee, in the dark, surrounded by deranged ‘Burqueños who thought “the “Fast & Furious” flicks were drivers’ ed.
Still, we got there, and I got back, and there was this lovely rose waiting for me just outside the kitchen window.
It ain’t all bad, this early-morning stuff.
October 16, 2016
Going down. Down, down, down, down, down.
More cycling, still more!
Yesterday I was riding the Nobilette through the steeps of Richie Rich country in northeastern Albuquerque. The idea is to cleanse the palate, flushing my system of everyone else’s bikes before I do a cannonball back into the deep end of the review pool beginning Monday.
No pix of the houses. Just their trees. I mean, you’ve seen one 12,000-square-foot house, you’ve seen ’em all.
The Nobilette has a Sugino triple (46/34/24), an Ultegra rear derailleur, and a nine-speed, 11-28 cassette, so spinning up the hills is a breeze, especially if that breeze is a tailwind. Plus it weighs 23 pounds, at least five pounds less than the typical review model.
I favor my Richie Rich route because it has almost zero traffic and plenty of climbing. Plus you get to see how the other half lives (large). One casita for sale along the way is listed for a million-five. Booyah.
While we’re discussing the lifestyles of the rich and famous, Insane Clown Pussy is still screeching about how the election he hasn’t even lost yet is “rigged.” Check those Florsheim prints on your little weenie, dude. I bet you find an exact match in one of your closets.
October 15, 2016
Blazing saddles: Not Mongo, but mango.
More cycling yesterday. I think I’ve finally broken my annual post-Interbike slump.
For some reason, probably that we’re suddenly in the middle of October, I decided to pull my favorite Steelman Eurocross off its hook, give it a bit of a wash and brush-up (plus two new Michelin Jets), and go chase myself around the Elena Gallegos Open Space for an hour or so.
I like to enjoy this sort of foolishness on a weekday, during business hours, the trails come weekends being thick with body-armored double-boingers, texting dog-walkers, the iPlod People and other impediments to forward motion. No need to have an audience while one struggles up a rocky pitch in the 36×26, with 700×30 tires.
One of these days I need to give the old beast more than some fresh rubber. Nine-speed Ultegra, maybe? That eight-speed STI is the velo-equivalent of stone knives and bearskins these days, though it seemed just the ticket back when I still had a song on my lips and a spring in my steps.
October 13, 2016
Though you might hear laughin’, spinnin’, swingin’ madly across the sun, it’s not aimed at anyone, it’s just escapin’ on the run.
I probably should have been conspiring with my fellow journalists about how best to speed the ongoing decline and fall of Ronald McDonald McTrump, but I felt like riding a bike, so I did that instead.
Anyway, it doesn’t look to me as though this virulent orange ball of flatulence needs my help to sink slowly in the west, into a sewage lagoon of its own making.
When I got back home I cranked up iTunes and worked my way through my admittedly limited Bob Dylan collection (“Blonde On Blonde,” “Blood On the Tracks,” “Bringing It All Back Home,” and “Highway 61 Revisited”).
I’m not sure ol’ Bob merits the Nobel Prize for Literature, but right offhand I can’t think of anyone else who has it coming, either. I know that I like him, and so I’m happy for him, and shall defer in matters literary to Thomas McGuane, whose opinion on Dylan (from “Nothing But Blue Skies”) I have poached before:
No one compares with this guy, thought Frank. I feel sorry for the young people of today with their stupid fucking tuneless horseshit; that may be a generational judgment but I seriously doubt it.
October 9, 2016
Send in the clown(s). (Lifted from fanpop.com)
Goddamnit, I guess we’re gonna have to watch tonight’s “town hall debate” between The Hilldebeast and whichever Ronald McDonald McTrump decides to show up, if any.
I can’t say I’m happy about it. Herself and I had agreed before the first matchup had even ended that we would watch no others.
But when I see Insane Clown Pussy furiously digging himself ever deeper into a hole, my natural inclination is to stand on the lip and watch. Maybe pee a little. OK, a lot. Call it “trickle-down journalism.”
Charlie Pierce says this big orange chicken has been a long time coming to roost, and I believe him, having once worked in a newsroom full of young, apparently intelligent people who were all hellbent on voting for St. Ronnie of Hollywood.
Will he lay a golden egg on stage, or will the end product be something entirely different, yet all too familiar? Don’t touch that dial.
October 8, 2016
Can you see the tears roll down the street?
This is what we have today. Heaven must be weeping over the stumbles of the Chosen One, who spake loudly and profanely of his desire to be fruitful and multiply with ladies of the female persuasion to whom he was not bound by holy matrimony.
Some of the lesser rats are leaping over the side of this leaky, gold-plated yacht, but it’s too early to tell whether they’ll swim to safety or sink like furry little stones.
The fattest rodents remain on deck, however, with dampened pinkies and flared nostrils testing the wind. Is that water down there or just more of the shit we’re already in, only deeper?
Paul “Lyin'” Ryan is stuck in a Shylockian crisis of his own making (“O, my daughter! O, my ducats!”). He wants it bad in 2020, but does he look principled or premeditated if he rescinds his support now, despite all the other crimes against the Republic committed by Agent Orange?
It’s enough to give a man the blues, for sure.
October 7, 2016
Definitely a hint of fall in the air, and in the trees as well.
One of my brothers-in-law recently took a job in Florida — the east coast, naturally — and looks like the welcome wagon has finally rolled up.
No worries. As Hurricane Matthew came a-calling he evacuated westward to a town just outside Chez Mouse, and with any luck at all, he’s just getting his windows washed for free. My bro’-in-law, not Mickey. The sis-in-law is still up north, wrapping up their affairs there.
Here in the Duke City the mornings and evenings have grown brisk, but the days themselves remain stellar. I went for a nice hike in the foothills yesterday so I could get a little October sunshine on my head. And today I plan a mountain-bike ride while everyone else in town is milling around at the balloon festival.
If I want any gasbag action, I’ll check the news when I get home. Whoops, there it is.