Is anyone else getting a strong whiff of Gen. Jack D. Ripper off Benjamin Netanyahu?
Meanwhile, we have a president who is less concerned for the American people than he is for his image in the history books that he doesn’t read.
It seems the Human Reliability Tests have failed us yet again.
Wildfire smoke and a record temp yesterday — 101°, 10 degrees above normal.
Nothing like what’s happening down in Aridzona, of course. Tucson hit 111°, and that wasn’t even a record. Neither was the high of 114° in Phoenix.
Do not expect to see me pitching my little tent at McDowell Mountain Regional Park anytime soon. Smoked Irish ham is not on the menu.
The air quality hereabouts being remarkable for its lack of same, I decided to skip the Monday Geezer Ride. I thought briefly about a short trail run, but when Herself returned from a morning appointment she advised against it, which is significant, her exercise mantra being “We can do anything for 30 minutes.”
After I drove to the bakery for a loaf of bread and a breakfast scone I agreed with her. Looking west I could barely see the river, and the Sandia foothills were shrouded as in the photo up top.
So we stayed indoors, following the news and gnawing on our livers.
Speaking of the news, here’s a thought: I’m sick of seeing cops decked out like comic-book vigilantes. I appreciate that theirs is a dangerous occupation, but it’s the one they signed up for. And the rest of us — the civilians who pay their salaries — don’t get to go about our business kitted out like X-Men as security cameras, drones, and our own pocket informers document our every move.
I want to see badges, nameplates, and faces. When even the cops can’t tell who the cops are, it’s time for a little transparency. Save the costumes for Halloween.
It’s No Kings Day! Well, actually, every day is No Kings Day, or should be.
Nevertheless, here we are, mired in our own filth (bloody peasants!), and a reminder to Certain People is in order.
Don’t torch the nice robots, or anything else. It’s going to be too hot for that sort of nonsense here in any case. Give a thought to the poor sods who have to parade in front of Orange Julius Caesar in our sweltering national capital. As Charles P. Pierce observed yesterday:
All is subtropical and appears fairly normal in anticipation of the March of the Metal Penises Saturday night here in Pyongyang on the Potomac. (By the way, my walk from the Metro to my hotel led me to thinking that agreeing to put the national capital here in exchange for the federal government’s assuming all the Revolutionary War debt may have sounded like a fair deal at the time, but now with June headed full speed into July, Hamilton, Jefferson, and Madison can, you know, bite me.)
“Bite me” is exactly the message we want to send the Unclothed Emperor via his courtiers in the press, what remains of it. Remind them all wherein the real authority resides, or should. You don’t use it, you lose it, as the fella says.
He likes a big crowd. Let’s give him one. And may he choke on it.
Sen. Alex Padilla (D-Calif.) took one for the team today, disrupting a presser by Kristi Kreme and getting the bum’s rush from her goon squad.
An old campaigner who was a field rep for Sen. Dianne Feinstein, and the son of Mexican immigrants, Padilla had to know exactly what he was doing when he acted out for the cameras — most of which, typically, remained focused on Reichstag Barbie as he got hustled out of the room.
Nevertheless, he found an audience, both in the press and at the Senate, where many Viewed With Alarm. Well, a little less than half of the senators, anyway. Outraged Democrats took to the Senate floor to deliver more than a few “Harumphs!”
I mean, my man didn’t light up a Waymo or nothin’.
The bar is mos def getting lowered. Either that or lifted, and aimed at some uptown noggins instead of the rabble downtown in L.A., ese.
Hey, kids, why should L.A. have all the fun?
If your idea of “fun” is having Cadet Bonespurs go all Rolling Thunder on you for having an overly noisy barbecue, that is.(Sorry, Waymo.)
“Let a hundred Stooges bloom!” as our Dear Wiseguy, Chairman Moe, has taught us. While that fat toddler plays with his (our!) Army men in DeeCee this Saturday, there will be a No Kings rally in The Duck! City. And judging by the map of scheduled events there is probably one in your neck of the peckerwoods, too.
No torches, no pitchforks — just a nationwide woo woo woo woo woo. A virtual finger-poke in that toddler’s piggy little eyes.
If he tries to get tough we’ll break out the big guns: The Groucho Marxists.
And remember, kids — when you’re smashing the State, keep a smile on your lips and a song in your heart:
Hello … you must be going. You cannot stay, I came to say, you must be going. It was a shame you ever came, you best be going. …
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