Sitting on some docs at the bay …
Category: Assholes
A wee bit of civics
June 1. Good gawd awmighty. Three weeks until the first day of summer.
Where the hell does the time go?
It doesn’t feel very summery, not yet. We’re slathering on the sunscreen when we go out and about, but highs have only reached the mid-70s to mid-80s, which are very much bearable.
Thus, we have no excuses for staying inside to watch Sleepy Joe and Charlie McCarthy make the sausage. We’ll be eating it soon enough.
It all reminds me very little of what we were taught in junior-high civics classes. Or home economics, for that matter.
What it reminds me of is gym class, specifically the shower portion, wherein a jock occasionally would pee surreptitiously on some poor geek’s leg while distracting him with conversation.
The geek was usually so astonished to be having a chat with one of his betters that he didn’t notice the augmented fluids coursing down his calf until the giggling began.
And then he couldn’t do anything about it anyway.
The geek didn’t yet know about the sausage. He still thought it was just something mom put on his plate with the scrambled eggs and toast. He still thought Bob Dylan was just singing a song.
From hairballs to purrs
O, Lord, sometimes a fella feels like he’s barefoot navigating a carpet spotted with hairballs in the dark.
Warner-Discovery bollixed its big switch from HBO Max to Max, forcing subscribers like Your Humble Narrator to dash hither and yon across the Internets, trying to figure out how we could enjoy “content” we were paying for but suddenly not receiving. Handy Household Hint to W-D execs: As error messages go, “Something went wrong” is just a wee bit vague.
E. Lawn Mulch stepped on his own dingus (yet again) with a rapid unscheduled disassembly of Ronald DeSadist’s pestilential campaign on Twatter Spaces. I expect various minions, varlets, and knaves (if any remain) were promptly laid off and escorted from the Twatter offices (for which rent is not being paid). Look for DeSadist to ban Twatter in Florida.
At Verizon, which is shedding customers, employees in “customer experience, loyalty, and technology positions” have been advised to prepare for “transition to the next stage of your career journey.” Your call is important to us. Or not.
Meanwhile, in the vast retail/services landscape, there is at least one happy customer. Miss Mia Sopaipilla got an A++ in her most recent visit to the vet and gives the chef’s kiss — muah! — to her bedcave.
Is there a Meow as well as a Yelp? I’m looking forward to a glowing review.
‘Bigger even than I had feared’*
“We’re gonna need a bigger plunger, hon.’ This one doesn’t want to go down and stay down.”
Two takes on Tucker Carlson’s fall from grace: Alex Shephard at The New Republic thinks it’s funny, and David A. Graham at The Atlantic thinks that whoever replaces him will be even worse.
Me, I don’t really have a dog in this fight. The only time I ever watched the bowtied little prick was when Jon Stewart punk’d him on “Crossfire.”
* The headline is a bit of bathroom humor from “Panama,” by Thomas McGuane.
Having a blast, wish you weren’t here
Sort of a mixed message, isn’t it?
Some of us contemplate replacing our gas appliances and infernal-combustion vehicles with electrical gizmos, whizbangs, and comosellamas in order to help stave off (or at least slow down) global environmental catastrophe.
Meanwhile, in one go, a single wealthy narcissist can spray Mother Earth with a money shot of 15 million pounds of liquid methane-oxygen propellant, a jillion bits of shrapnel from an exploding 120-foot-long dick-missile, and uncounted gigatons of Texas sand, soil, and Christ only knows what … and then call it a learning experience.
I know what I’ve learned. My little electric kettle ain’t gonna git the cattle to Abilene, is what.
