He's a walkin' contradiction, partly truth and partly fiction.
Author: Patrick O'Grady
After decades with his scabby little nose pressed to various grindstones of journalism, Patrick O'Grady came away with plenty of mental scar tissue, a good deal less hair to cover it, and an undiminished appreciation for three subsets of the craft: drawing cartoons, writing commentary, and composing headlines. All three are short, punchy attention-getters, the literary equivalent of yelling, "Hey, look at me!" before hanging a moon out the school-bus window, and thus own a natural appeal for an overgrown class clown with the attention span of a rat terrier raised on angel dust and bong water. And thanks to the Internet, the best thing to happen to journalism since the invention of movable type, he gets to do all three of them without having to go to work at a newspaper, where management has slowly devolved into a button-down mutant hybrid of the worst aspects of the Spanish Inquisition, the dental bits in "Marathon Man" and the DMV of your choice. He and his wife, the long-suffering Shannon, share an adobe hacienda in The Duck! City with their cat, Miss Mia Sopaipilla.
Everything these people say for public consumption should come with an asterisk and a footnote reading: “Caution. May contain toxic amounts of bullshit.”
The New York Times has stepped on its old gray dick again, with a headline reading “Trump Tests Negative.”
These bozos still don’t get it. The man is a documented liar a thousand times over, and yet they insist on feeding us preposterous bullshit like this.
The Washington Post gets it right with “Trump tests negative for coronavirus, physician says.” See how easy that is? Absent independent verification, you attribute the statement.
“Hey, we never said that shit. His doctor did.”
If the sonofabitch said the sun rises in the east, I would step outside to see for myself. And on more than one morning, too.
“The unthinkable had always been thinkable.” Edward Abbey wasn’t just a writer, he was a prophet.
Anyone in the mood for a bit of apocalyptic fiction in these dark days could do worse than “Good News,” by Cactus Ed Abbey, who died on this day in 1989.
Like Michael Moorcock’s Eternal Champion, Abbey’s Jack Burns took many forms (and many beatings) over the years, from “The Brave Cowboy” through “Hayduke Lives!” in which the titular character, George Hayduke, says with a grin, “See you in Hell, Jack Burns.”
I spent the early morning self-quarantining with a medicinal cup of French Roast-Black Lightning from Aroma Coffee of Santa Fe.
No, no, I don’t have the coronavirus. Not yet; not that I know of, anyway. Just the usual attitude. Gotta beat that shit into submission before greeting the day.
I’m not what you’d call a power user of the iPhone, but today I used mine to check the news while propped up on the pillows, enjoying my coffee. Oof, bad idea. The rest of the world seems at least as dumb as I am, which is not reassuring.
For example, I thought people might stop shooting each other for a while. You know, let nature take its course. Nope. What’s next, drive-bys on the drive-up testing sites?
“Yo, I got a test for you, bitch! How fast can you run?” Pow pow pow, etc.
Everyone’s world is getting just a little bit smaller.
Has everyone settled in to The New Normal yet?
Herself had to make a supply run to Herself the Elder’s assisted-living home yesterday, but since she forgot her biohazard gear and breathing apparatus, she had to leave the goodies on the porch. The joint is on lockdown, with the drawbridge up and the moat full of gators, piranha fish, and plugged-in toasters.
She managed to snap a selfie at mom’s bedroom window, though. And of course, when you can’t get actual facetime, there’s FaceTime.
Elsewhere, the noobs are trying to figure out how to work from home. Lucky for me, I have a black belt in social distancing, which I have been practicing since 1991, when after 15 years in the Petri dish of daily journalism it was suddenly just me, my Mac SE, and a Hayes modem, in a spare bedroom.
Also, as a geezer with a broken ankle and the Socialist Insecurity due to start rolling in next month, I don’t have much to do or a pressing need to go somewhere to do it.
So I got that going for me, which is nice.
The hard part, for me and for thee, is the temptation to go all COVID-19, all the time. Don’t do it. Send a daily hate mail to the White House and then call it a day.
Watching this lame reboot of “A Day at the Races” ain’t doing it for me. There are more horses’ asses than horses in this one, and I don’t think the fat fuck playing Dr. Hackenbush is even a vet, much less an MD.
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