Category: Assholes

Up the Wazoo

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
It’s always happy trails on the Blue Wazoo.

DeeCee being a rather long slog via Subaru, I decided I’d settle for a short mood-altering run on the neighborhood trails yesterday.

I won’t travel by air, as you know. And if I did, the airline probably wouldn’t let me take my torch and pitchfork, even as checked baggage.

Anyway, what do I know about taxidermy? Sure, I could collect a few souvenir heads in our nation’s capital with my handy-dandy Gomboy folding saw, but then what? The TSA says you can board a plane with fresh meat, but they may decide to add a cautionary note about “the severed heads of Supreme Court justices” after running your lumpy carry-on through the scanner twice because they didn’t believe what they saw on the first pass.

And if you do manage to make it home without incident, preserving and mounting your prizes for display in the den is not a chore you want to hand off to anyone who doesn’t owe you a really big favor.

Shucks, even a six-pack of ears pinned to a cork board in the garage can make for some pointed conversations you’d rather not have, even if you explain that the fuckers never used them for listening, only to keep their trifocals from falling into their black robes or onto the bench, and anyway, with the fat stacks of attaboys they get from their rich pals they can have a new pair grafted on before you can say, “Case dismissed.”

So, yeah. Herself and I went for a nice trail run in the sunshine, and afterward I decided I was still not in the mood to update myself on the latest news, so I changed costumes and took the Voodoo Wazoo for an enjoyable 90 minutes of light gnar-shredding in the Elena Gallegos Open Space.

Today I see the courtroom drama has shifted back to Manhattan. Time for another run. I can’t remember where I put that saw.

Just humming along

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
Open for business.

I suppose I should be laser-focused on the doings in Manhattan, but I’m more interested in whether we’ll get some hummingbirds at the feeder this morning. We saw our first hummers of spring last evening, just before dusk, doing an aerial dance around the ornamental plum.

Speaking of feeders, do you think that when Porky hears “Order in the court!” he reflexively blurts, “Two Big Macs, two Filet-O-Fishes, and a large chocolate shake!”

That’s reaching

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 4 Comments
The backyard maple is slowly leafing out as it reaches for more sunshine.

Good gravy. You couldn’t find more gasbags in the news if it were Thanksgiving Day and the Macy’s parade were meandering through Manhattan. On fire.

You have Rep. Mikey Mouse (R-Dizzyland) calling himself “a wartime speaker.” This is true in the sense that he is at war with his own caucus.

Then there’s tough guy Tom Cotton, (R-Dunk-’n’-Flay), regaling us from the depths of his dead eyes about how they know how to treat peace-creeps and hippies in Arkansas, where he apparently rarely shows his … well, I suppose you’d call that a face, if only because it’s parked on the front of his head.

And of course there’s Will D. DeFendant smirking, snoozing, and sounding off through jury selection in his criminal trial.

Hizzoner was not amused.

“Your client was audible,” Judge Juan Merchan told the defendant’s shysters, mouthpieces, and ambulance chasers.

Boy, is that ever an understatement. An offense to the ears, eyes, and nose, if you believe what you smell on the Innertubes from noted yukmeisters Adam Kinzinger and Kathy Griffin.

Well, look on the bright side. The trial takes a day off tomorrow, and we’re not in the jury pool.

The Shart-Timer

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 1 Comment
“I gotta start wearing rubber undies.” Photograph doctored after being poached from Jim Lo Scalzo | EPA

Well, it seems Will D. Defendant won one and lost one today. He found a sucker to bond him out of some deep doo-doo in one case, but his relentless punching down at the Little People got a gag order expanded in another.

As The New York Times is fond of reminding us (those teases): “If Mr. Trump violates the order, the judge could impose fines, and in extraordinary circumstances, throw him behind bars.” Be still, my heart.

Meanwhile, is it just me, or does the latest Squeaker of the House always look like he’s fighting off a wicked shart? I’d be doubling up on my Kevlar Depends, too, if the Redneck Baroness was piloting her Fokker pickup with its twin Spandaus trained on my six.

Will the defendant please … relax?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments
Here’s a pic of a cute lil’ kitty-cat to distract you from the other one.

Call me cynical (“You’re cynical!”), but I don’t think that other cat, the bedraggled, raggedy-ass orange tom that keeps slinking around the joint, yowling, spraying on the national furniture, and clawing the Stars & Stripes curtains into ribbons, is in danger of being put to sleep anytime soon.

Nossiree, he’s got himself a solid majority of black-robed laps in which to curl up while he awaits delivery of The Big Fish, the one that got away on Jan. 6, 2021.

Fuck me running.

Meanwhile, the playacting continues. Government shutdown: Will they or won’t they? Dueling VIP visits to The Border, that deadly, open-air, razor-wired waiting room where all the brown foreigners go to apply for the jobs nobody else wants. The Senate leadership following the House down the rabbit hole to Wonderland. Gaza. Ukraine. “Dynamic pricing” at Wendy’s.

And now, this: Is a president a king?

I thought we settled that question back in 1776. But as I recall, that king required a few years of rather aggressive convincing before he conceded the point.