Category: Agitprop

The real Tampa Bay buccaneers

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments
The chefs and proprietors of The Local enjoy a chuckle despite it being 91 outside and at least twice that in their Chevy Step-Van.

Oh, Lord, am I ever glad that the likes of Charles P. Pierce, Ed Kilgore and Steve Benen are following this Floridian fuckery so I don’t have to.

There is something excruciatingly discordant in the keening of pirates who, after scuttling the Ship of State with pointless warfare and the dispensation of booty unclaimed from same to all their mates, have the effrontery to dress down the colored fella we hired to police up this mess for his failure to immediately raise the wreckage from the Mariana Trench in which they left it, tow it to drydock a la Jack LaLanne and then promptly outfit it as a luxury yacht for honkies who make extravagant bets with each other using other people’s money and call that work.

Thus after a quick whiff of the same old bullshit I sailed away on my Nobilette for a cruise through the Broadmoor, then fired up the Vespa for a voyage to the Colorado Farm and Art Market to take a few pix of a nifty startup, The Local.

This food truck is manned  (womaned?) by a couple of lively U.S. Air Force vets who are bringing tasty Mexican-American-Asian cuisine to the landlubbers here in Bibleburg. I’m talking burgers on a pretzel bun with bacon jam — yes, bacon jam — and Korean barbecue tacos.

I shot the pix for The Farm Beet, one of the many sombreros worn by my friend and colleague Hal Walter of Hardscrabble Times, and I don’t imagine that he’ll object if I post one here.

The prez risks contracting Teh Crazy

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 4 Comments

The prez came to town today to address the U.S. Air Force Academy’s graduates. I hope he was inoculated against Teh Crazy before he left DeeCee to chat up the Blue Zoomies, ’cause Teh Crazy is an epidemic in these parts, along with viral stupidity. All we need is a stupid, crazy president. Oops, wait, too late — that was the last guy.

Meanwhile, and for the permanent record, Rep. Doug Lamborn (R-Asshat) is a chickenshit punk who was born in Leavenworth, Kansas, and should be returned there with all speed, to take up residence in the U.S. penitentiary for impersonating a U.S. congressman.

In a sane nation a would-be ward heeler like this numbnuts would be restricted to standing up to his fat ass in a ditch full of raw sewage with a shovel, where his shit-talking would have the audience of inattentive turds that it deserves. Alas, as I have noted before, while most states send their mental defectives to the state hospital, Colorado sends its fuckwits to the U.S. House.

• Late update: And Jesus H. Christ on an armored vehicle, who is handling press relations for Rep. Mike Coffman (R-HAL 2000)? This is what you get when cousins marry, or you elect a middle-school science project to Congress.

Jesus wept?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments
April showers
Good day for a bike with fenders. Either that or kit with a brown stripe up the back.

There was water on the deck when I arose this morning. Was Jesus weeping over the news that Rick Sphinctorum had suspended his campaign for the GOP pestilential nomination? Nope. Just a bit of rain, overdue and very welcome.

Then again, the moisture could be heavenly tears of hysterical laughter after Rep. Allen West (R-Tinfoil Beanie) declared he had “heard” that as many as 80 House Democrats are members of the Communist Party.

Ho, ho. As a retired commie — Communist Party (Marxist-Leninist), Class of 1977 — I get the giggles every time some right-wing cartoon character tries to crank up a good, old-fashioned Red Scare. The CP (M-L) was kissing China’s ass long before American capitalists began puckering up, and we didn’t even get any cheap plastic trinkets for our trouble. When it went away nobody noticed, not even the Chinese.

As for the Communist Party USA, with only a few thousand members and a longstanding renunciation of violent revolution today’s Party poses as much of a threat to the Republic as a New Black Panther Party chapter in Luckenbach, Texas.

S-brrrrrr-ing!

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
Spring flower
It's a tough row to hoe, being a flower in March.

The first day of spring and whadda we get? Thirty-friggin’-four with wind from the north at 26 mph, gusting to 41.

As usual, this is my fault. Last week, when we were enjoying an unseasonable stretch of 60- and 70-something temps, I connected hoses to faucets, watered the lawn and — worst of all — put a new battery in the Vespa. Imagine my embarrassment.

Best of all, the wind is peppering us with tree pollen, and allergies have me by the snotlocker with a downhill pull. Snork. Gluck. Hawk. Ptui. Repeat as necessary.

This means that instead of riding my bike in shorts and short sleeves, as I did all last week, I will be slouching here at the computer, searching for things that piss me off to elevate the old heart rate.

Like this item about House Budget Committee Chairman Paul Ryan (R-Ayn Rand), who claims his “budget” will strengthen the safety net for the poor, disabled and elderly. Uh huh. The “net” to which he refers concerns the fishnet stockings Granny will have to wear while pole-dancing to pay for her blood-pressure meds.

Or this one about employers demanding that prospective employees give them their Facebook user names and passwords so they can go snooping around to see if you enjoy calling their favorite Randite nutsack a zombie-eyed granny-starver. Yo, Mister Human Resources, I got your job right fuckin’ here.

And finally this one, about a self-appointed vigilante who guns down a 17-year-old kid armed with a bag of Skittles and a can of Arizona iced tea … and isn’t charged with shit, not even littering. Now and then I think about selling the family arsenal. And then I think again, because guys like this are roaming around, packing. Jesus wept.