They say that money Can’t buy love in this world But it’ll get you a half-pound of cocaine And a 16-year old girl And a great big long limousine On a hot September night Now that may not be love But it is all right. — Randy Newman, ‘It’s Money That I Love’
Don’t touch that dial! No, seriously, don’t touch it. Eeeyeeww.
I see Prince Maybelline, putative Heir to the Golden Escalator, has managed a rare double in the 2026 Foreign Policy World Series, failing to end a war and queer an election.
Sucks to be him. If there’s ever a Marvel movie about this administration, and there shouldn’t be, I figure Johnny Depp plays the prince in full Jack Sparrow makeup. Stellan Skarsgård will of course bring his Baron Vladimir Harkonnen chops to the role of Addled Shitler, but with an overlay of Evil Otis Campbell from the Bizarro World version of “The Andy Griffith Show.”
And now Shitler is beefing with the pope? He’s a huge fat bastard for sure, but I don’t think he can make the weight for that bout, no matter how many Unhappy Meals he inhales between fat rails of Adderall.
The start of Tramway’s descent toward Interstate 25.
Never fear, I’m not back on the sauce. This drop taken was down to the bosque, for the first time this year.
It was a lovely day, if a bit windy — high of 80°, 65° when I started — and if I’d had my wits about me I could’ve finally ridden my age (in kilometers).
The Rio lacks a certain grandeur.
But I didn’t. After inspecting the state of the Rio Grande below the Gail Ryba bridge (still fluid, in a not-so-solid fashion), instead of pulling a U and heading home via the Paseo/North Diversion/Osuna-Bear Canyon trails, I noodled back to the ranch through Old Town to Odelia-Indian School and the Paseo de las Montañas/Tramway trails. Wound up 8 miles short of a birthday ride. In kilometers. Which is kind of like kissing your sister.
The Bosque Bandido never materialized, but I did notice a John Law parked on the gravel at trailside. We exchanged waves. Didn’t ask to see my papers or nothin’. Which was fortunate, because all I had on me was an elderly iPhone 13 mini, a water bottle, and a stick of Clif Blox. It would’ve been off to County Clare for Your Humble Narrator.
“Ireland? But your honor, my client’s bicycle doesn’t even have fenders!”
“Tough titty, counselor — he should’ve thought about that before his great-granddaddy came here to occupy a barstool that by rights belonged to a nat’chal-borned American. Next case!”
The good news is I missed whatever it was Melania thought she was up to behind the pestilential lectern, where nobody could see the rug burns on her elbows and knees, and that “Property of Satan’s Slaves’ tat’ on her ass.
Isn’t it about time we started relocating some of these Trumps to gilt-free cages in the swamps, deserts, and desert swamps of Wottalottaland, Lower Slobbovia, and Spaminacanistan? I mean, Christ, Boss Hogg is bombing anything he can’t steal, Melanoma’s doing this feeble impression of Richard Pryor’s “Now are you gonna believe me or your lyin’ eyes?” bit, and now Barron wants to start dealing speed in Florida?
Dude thinks he’s being cute by calling it “yerba mate,” which I think is Guarani for “murder tea.” Wait until he hears what the Cartel calls it. “Gringo failing to swim across the Gulf of America while wearing 300 pounds of chains, a jukebox, and a burlap sack,” is what.
See if you can get mommy and daddy to join you for that dip in the shark tank, kid. Your ould fellah could certainly use the exercise. Driving the golf cart and having people killed ain’t getting it done.
• Addendum: Artemis II made it home safely, and about 20 minutes after they were bobbing around in the Pacific off San Diego, boom! We got our first hummingbird of the new year at our feeders. Winning!
I have some thoughts about a long-overdue firing. The underperforming employee is pictured above. Let’s fire him — to the moon. Tell him it’s made of Mickey D’s cheeseburgers and he can be king of the place until the oxygen and/or ketchup runs out.
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