A thunderclap yesterday afternoon startled Miss Mia Sopaipilla, who was curled up in her favorite sack, enjoying her eleventy-seventh nap of the day.
I did not tell her, as did Johnny Lundgren’s dad in Jim Harrison’s “Warlock,” “That’s God barking at you for being such a miserable little pissant.”
No, I reassured her that it wasn’t God, probably, or even the work of a (much) lesser (would-be) deity — say, Felonious Punk, commanding a few of his masked ICEholes to shock-and-awe us back to wherever we came from, or didn’t, whatever.
Even if fascism were to come a-calling at El Rancho Pendejo, Miss Mia should have nothing to fear. She’s a Russian blue, and since the Punk just blew a Russian, she should be A-OK with him and his goons. Cream for all my apparatchiks!
Now, me, I’m an Irish-American Red, so who knows where I’d wind up? Where would a Adderall-snorting asshat send a sober Mick scribbler with a bicycle fetish? A Boston pub to pull pints on St. Patrick’s Day? The International Space Station, to chronicle its “retirement,” slated for 2030? Couldn’t log much saddle time up there over the next five years, but I’d get to rip one helluva descent when NASA — if it’s still around — pulls the plug.
And Herself? Conscripted into the Punk’s platoon of librarians, I expect. Condemned to catalog the pestilential archives of fuck books, Truth Social screeds, and unpaid bills.
And she wouldn’t be allowed to shush any of his minions, who never ever give their festering gobs a nanosecond’s respite from telling the FreeDummies that Making America Great Again requires chop-shopping it into a Dollar Store knockoff of Pooty-poot’s Russia.
Troops to Ukraine? Hell no! But troops to DeeCee? That’s the real global trouble spot, amirite?
The best intel I can muster tells me that the enemy is bunkered up at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. NW. Careful with the arty and airstrikes, lads, and try to avoid damage to the facility if it’s feasible — it is a National Heritage Site, but may have been desecrated beyond resurrection.
I mean, have you seen what these terrorists have done to the Rose Garden?
Mad Blog Media 
If you change the name of your digs to Rancho Perro Loco, the feds would pass you by. Mad Dog Ranch would scare those fellers. Might even tinkle in their Jockeys at the thought of messing with “tough hombres.” They would rather fuck with Grandma at work cleaning hotel rooms at the Holiday Inn.
Is there room in Miss Mia’s sack for a hairy-legged bipedal bog-trotter who has decided he’s had enough of humankind?
Man … we’re gonna need a bigger sack.
I think, all of a sudden, I wouldn’t mind sharing a home with a cat.
Good to know that in this crazy, fucked up, rapidly spiraling the drain world we live in, at least once a year we can come together and celebrate two wheeled goodness.
Tour de Fat takes Fort Collins by storm
https://www.coloradoan.com/story/news/2025/08/24/tour-de-fat-rolls-through-fort-collins-in-2025/85804438007/
Had to miss it this year. The only responsible adult in the household was visiting her college buddies and partaking in a Melissa Etheridge/Indigo Girls show. So I was left playing Papa Lyft in support of the Recreational Athletics Industrial Complex. (Eisenhower tried to warn us about the military version, but he did not see Nike and Gatorade coming for our kids and wallets.)
Yes but of course there also is the World Naked Bike Ride in Portland, OR.
My smarter half, and damn sure better looking half, has been going to physical therapy for shoulder tendinitis. It is fine now. Two weeks ago she wore her Mad Dog Media T shirt to therapy, and her therapist asked about it. She told him about our cycling in the past, and he showed her his big Leadville 100 MTB race buckle he won the past weekend.