Month: March 2020

Happy St. Whatsisface Day

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments
Boggy O’Trotter, fresh from an epic 8-mile ride.
The flowers were in case I croaked en route.

Herself and I kitted up (in green, natch) and rode our mountain bikes over to Herself the Elder’s assisted-living home this afternoon.

It was a resupply op (HtE was out of wine) and the choppers were all grounded, so whaddaya gonna do?

I chose the old DBR Axis TT because it has 26-inch wheels (easy to throw a leg over); fat tires (squish squish squish); and boingy bits (boy-boy-yoinnnnng), all of which help minimize the impact to the bum ankle, which is wearing one of these doodads. Swapped the Time ATACs for flat pedals too.

No land-speed records were set. But it was nice to be riding a bicycle that was actually going somewhere.

Little feat

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments
I’m not jumping for joy yet, but spring seems to have sprung nicely.
My new sailin’ shoe.

Tootsie Voodoo said I could lose the Darth Gimp boot and crutches, so I traded up for a lace-up brace that I can wear with socks and shoes.

I may have limped in just under the wire, too. Management was said to be mulling whether to reschedule all non-acute cases.

“Sorry, bub. Here’s a hacksaw. You’ll have to find your own peg and parrot. Next!”

Sounds like a great excuse to do the “Old Folks’ Boogie.”

So you know that you’re over the hill
When your mind makes a promise that your body can’t fill
Try and get a rise from an atrophied muscle,
And the nerves in your thigh just quivers and fizzles

‘The excitement is contagious. …’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 4 Comments
Dr. Memory … paging Dr. Memory. …

I woke up singing, “Make the World Go Away.”

It wouldn’t, of course. The world is remarkably persistent. Always up in your grille with its pestilence, stock-market crashes, toilet-paper shortages, leadership vacuums, Darth Gimp boots, doctor’s appointments, and stupidity.

For, like the poor, ye have the stupid always with you.

Sometimes, a guy wants a little smart. And so, after a consultation with Dr. Memory, and in keeping with the general plague theme, we present for your listening enjoyment “Waiting for the Electrician or Someone Like Him” by The Firesign Theatre.

If only we had a generated, veneered leader. (Hear, hear!) Our own “Fighting Jack.” (Where, where?) But nope — all we have is a pestilence (There, there).

Folklure

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 34 Comments
Never stand when you can sit; never sit when you can sprawl.

OK, folks, just because we can, let’s take the temperature (rimshot) of the audience.

How are all y’all dealing with The Plague?

Here, Miss Mia Sopaipilla is banking Z’s because, hey, you never know when you’ll need to be well-rested.

Herself is business as usual at La Fábrica de Bombas — as far as we know, anyway, because classified classified classified.

And I, of course, remain in my secure location at The Compound, at the helm of my globe-spanning multimedia Cirque du So Lame, which would sound funnier if I weren’t so lame.

There’s leftover oven-baked chicken and chili con carne in the ’fridge, fresh and frozen fruits and vegetables, and the makings of a variety of vegetarian soups, stews and pasta dishes in the cupboards. We are well stocked with coffee, tea, and wine, but low on fake beer, which is not an issue as nobody ever got the DTs from a lack of fake beer.

And can you believe it? We have toilet paper. Didn’t need to wipe out (heh) a Costco to get it, either. When that runs out we’ll print mugshots of Il Douche and use those, mailing them to the Orange House afterward.

But enough about us. What’s up with you? Sound off in comments.