Twenty-something when we walked The Boo this brisk winter morn. Yow, wow, ow, zow, etc.
Naturally, I wore my Wobbly watch cap to keep ice off my dome. Later I plan to brew a batch of my famous green chile stew to repel any sniffles, flus, and pneumonias trolling the neighborhood for the unprepared and ill-fortified. Even Che found smashing the State a formidable task when his pipes were clogged.
Betimes I fear the Ó Grádaighs intercoursed the penguin when they fled County Clare for Americay.
Were we still on the auld sod we’d be kings, or druids, lighting bonfires, rubbing up against the mistletoe and singing up the dawn on solstice instead of watching helplessly as brigands, highwaymen and landlords make off with every salable item in the Republic.
Well, maybe not. We’d probably be on the dole, trading our excess offspring for drink and stealing the neighbors’ pigs.
Still, damme if I feel like singing up the dawn on this side of the pond this morning. ‘Tis only the rising of the moon will have me tuning up so.
As I finished yesterday’s run I entered El Rancho Pendejo to wild applause and cheers.
I grinned, threw both hands in the air, and finally bowed before remembering that I’d left KUNM on to deter burglars and some pissant orchestra on “Performance Today” was stealing my thunder.
Well, it wasn’t as though I’d set a PR anyway.
And don’t believe your lyin’ eyes. No matter what that photo shows, I was not running in shorts. Well, I was, but they were under tights, and I was rockin’ two long-sleeved tops plus a tuque and gloves, too. I may be crazy, but I’m not insane. Cold out there! Colder than a ticket-taker’s smile at the Ivar Theatre on Saturday night.
Speaking of emotional weather reports, the forecast remains uncertain in Alabama. Talk about putting the vise grips on our mental health. I’m old enough to remember when we sent short-eyes to jail instead of the Senate.
As Charlie Pierce notes, the Numbnuts-in-Chief has found another puddle of gasoline to chuck his tiki torch into.
Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night? Jesus wept.
• Editor’s note: Here’s the first version of this tune I heard, on the CD of the same name.
Roy Moore? Nope. Roy Less, thanks all the same.
She’s my teen-age baby
She turns me on
I’d like to make her do a nasty
On the White House lawn
It’s Day Two of Zappadan 2017.
Mad Blog Media 