And about time, too. I’m tired of listening to the technologically besotted as they totter hither and yon, chattering boisteriously with their invisible friends. Send them to Coventry.
The Return of the Cone of Silence
Category: Assholes
Sorry, we can’t use you
“I have insisted that we enforce the necessary safeguards and processes to review an individual’s suitability for employment at the White House before that individual begins work,” says John Kelly, White House chief of staff.
Too bad the Electoral College didn’t share his lofty standards, hey?
Bridge to nowhere
Now and then I wonder whether we ever should have come down out of the trees.
Of course, if we were still up there, a certain subset of the species would probably still be inclined to shout, “Jump! Jump! Jump!” at anyone who was having a rough day.
That’s what was going on at Interstate 40 and Louisiana yesterday, according to the Duke City cops.
A would-be jumper had law enforcement and traffic tied up for the better part of quite some time on Super Bowl Sunday, and apparently not enough of the spectators had been to church yet because their prayers seemed wildly off base.
APD spokesman Simon Drobik told the Albuquerque Journal that efforts to talk the man off the overpass were hindered by drivers shouting “Jump!” and “Kill yourself!” as they motored happily along.
“Any ground that we can take, it just gets taken back immediately when somebody does that,” Drobik said. “It’s very disheartening.”
Well, at least they weren’t shooting at him. Keep hope alive.
His Majesty will see you now
Biter of Hands, Drinker from Sinks.
Maybe what we need is a king. The American Experiment seems to have given us a clot of unfunny Louis C.K.s bent on showing us their freckled dicks.
Meanwhile, Charlie Pierce is working on the weekend … and so, apparently, is Stormy “Making America Horny Again” Daniels.
Singing up the sun
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.
