“If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit.”
This is the first thing one learns in law school. Or so it seems to me, anyway.
And it dollars up on the hoof right smart, too.
You may think of Jeffrey as just another wrinkled weenie on the roller grill in the Devil’s 7-Eleven, but lawyers have been dining out on him for years, and the feast ain’t over yet.
The lawyers in Congress have demanded that his files be released, and the lawyers in the Justice Department have been (and still are) cherry-picking them with a liberal application of the black Magic Marker, which means the elected ambulance-chasers may bring obstruction-of-justice charges, contempt charges, or even impeachments, which would cause the executive shysters to hire top-shelf mouthpieces of their own, and you didn’t exactly have to be brilliant to see this bullshit coming, though you do have to foot the bill.
Merry Christmas. No, don’t unwrap that box. We’ve got the receipts, but they won’t take it back.
Shouldn’t this Jolly Rogerer be flying the skull and crossbones?
Cap’n Piggy is pissing on Nicolás Maduro’s shoes, saying the U.S. Coast Guard and Navy have snatched up an oil tanker off Venezuela.
The usual deeply considered, stable-genius, hold-my-Big Mac-and-watch-this planning applies, of course. Asked what would happen to the oil aboard the tanker, the cap’n replied, “Well, we keep it, I guess.”
Well, I guess it couldn’t be long before he added piracy to his list of crimes. Might we expect Piggy to shift his allegiance from Mickey D’s to Long John Silver’s?
“Bike lane.” Ho, ho. You can see how much safety that implies by the indifferently tarred seams and that tire scuff on the curb.
With the Ice Capades on pause and my cabin fever in triple digits I found time for a lazy 20-miler yesterday.
Back when I was a man, instead of whatever it is that I am now, I thought nothing of driving for a few hours to race cyclocross for 45 minutes plus one lap in conditions that made the ice planet Hoth look like Epstein Island.
Now I perch like a zopilote on the frozen carcass of my summertime fitness, pecking away at the Weather Underground website until the temperature creeps into the mid-40s.
It finally got there around 11:30 yesterday and I sprang into action, which looks an awful lot like some old bald dude tottering into his bedroom to see if he has any clean winter cycling kit.
Lo and behold, he did — Sugoi tuque, long-sleeve Paddygucci base layer, long-sleeve Gore Bike Wear jersey, full-finger Pearl Izumi gloves, Voler bibs, Pearl Izumi tights, Smartwool socks.
I glanced longingly at my Shimano SH-XM700 GTX clodhoppers with their Gore-Tex liners and Vibram soles. Toasty warm? To be sure. But there is always the chance of shoe-fender conflict when riding a bicycle so equipped, as I intended. Furthermore, your Duck! City driver — unpredictable at any time of year, in all conditions — doubles down on the dumbass on weekends, in poor weather, and during holiday seasons. When rocking the trifecta you want to be able to get out of your pedals faster than a Republican fleeing a primary (or his constituents).
So the beater Sidis it was, and boy, do I ever need a new pair of them. The soles have been ground flat by Dog only knows how many skidding dismounts at speed and long runs up muddy hills. And the Velcro straps are basically ornamental at this point, flapping in the breeze like my tongue at any heart rate over 150 bpm.
This dithering proved bootless (har de har har). Not only did I not need the fenders, I could’ve ridden in Birkenstocks, the way my old pal John “Usuk” O’Neill once did while we climbed Hardscrabble Canyon in Colorado. The roads were free of ice and snow, the only menace to traction being a scattering of white powder, which I assume was the remains of whatever the transpo dudes use to melt that mess. Probably fentanyl seized by the John Laws. Maybe there’s a tariff on road salt. There sure as shit is on Italian bicycle saddles. No, don’t ask.
Anyway, toward the end of the ride, just a few meters east of that bike-lane sign, some northbound asshat in a sporty red auto blew right through the stop sign at the intersection of High Desert and Spain as I approached headed south. Never even touched the brake pedal. An eastbound motorist gave him the horn, and the asshat gave one right back.
I left my Incredibell unrung. Why add my little tinkle to that sonic stream? That’s what blogs are for.
God of War Henery “Pistol Pete” Hegseth (major, National Guard, ret.). Apologies to Chuck Jones/Warner Bros.
When the going gets tough, the tough get going, and God of War Henery “Pistol Pete” Hegseth is no exception.
Left unsatisfied by (and roundly criticized for) sinking small craft in America’s Oceans® — including a double-tap that finished off a couple survivors of one such strike — the retired National Guard major and Faux News foghorn set out after bigger game.
Not that he’s taking the credit for that particular kill, mind you.
Writes Stars and Stripes:
“Secretary [Pete] Hegseth authorized Adm. [Frank M.] Bradley to conduct these kinetic strikes. Adm. Bradley worked well within his authority, and the law, directing the engagement to ensure the boat was destroyed and the threat to the United States was eliminated,” White House press secretary Karoline Leavitt said.
The buck stops where? Tell you what, grunt — uh, pardon me, admiral, sir — you don’t want to be on duty when that particular dollar lands in your lap.
Just ask Herbert “Spermwhale” Whalen, a major in the U.S. Air Force Reserve who flew in World War II and Korea before joining the Los Angeles Police Department. Speaking of a superior officer in Joe Wambaugh’s novel “The Choirboys,” the burly street cop observed:
“I always knew he was behind us. I felt him there many times.”
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