Hoo-boy, can Miss Mia Sopaipilla take a piss in the press pool or what?
I gotta quit leaving the TV on when I go out for a ride. She’s getting notions from somewhere.
I mean, I feed her and clean her litter box, and she won’t even take my questions.
Another day, another record.
Yesterday’s high of 101° pipped the previous record of 100°, set all the way back in 1944, when America was still fighting fascists rather than electing them.
Every day brings a new high, or a new low, depending upon your perspective.
Now it seems we want to start a pissing match with Brazil. Jaysis H., etc. As if things aren’t already stupid-hot enough around here.
How many Brazillions will that cost us? How many is a Brazillion*, anyway?
* Remember when we thought that guy was as bad as it could ever get?
Jaysis fook, he’s off on 2020 again.
Can someone please tell the senile sonofabitch that those little blue pills won’t give him an election?
Well, I’ve done it again.
I filled out the paperwork and trudged that long mile between El Rancho Pendejo and our neighborhood Vote Center to begin the process of tossing out various rascals and installing others.
The hope is that in the end we will have elected some folks who will have the common courtesy to sell us out in private, where we don’t have to watch over our coffee and Cheerios. The no-holes-barred, open-air whorehouse that reopened on Jan. 20, 2025, has not been a boon to the Republic or the digestive tract.
In point of fact, it’s been the shits.
I persist in voting because it’s the only real alternative to armed insurrection. There’s always staying home on Election Day, but that helped get us where we are, so, nuh uh. And I don’t have a passport, so running-away is off the table.
What worries me is the suspicion that if we ever reach the “up with halberd, out with sword” point, we may find that His Excremency King Piggy the Sticky-fingered and his gombeen men have deployed a band of A.I. brigands to empty all our accounts before we can armor up at our friendly neighborhood boom-boom rooms.
“Up the rebels!” and all that, but if we’re going after them for keepsies I’d like to be packing something with more authority than my 72-year-old teeth and toenails.
You probably can’t see the scattering of raindrops on my sunglasses, proof that I chose wisely when I decided to go for a run at 7:30 this morning instead of waiting to see whether the skies cleared.
The forecasts from the National Weather Service and Weather Underground were for … well, frankly, they were for shit. No common ground. One declared that it was already raining (it was not) and might be doing so again later. The other? “A chance of showers, with thunderstorms also possible after noon.”
Well, there’s always a chance of something happening somewhere. It’s what makes life worth living. There’s a chance that Jeebus might come back, give Orange Julius Caesar a sandal right in the ballroom, and deliver a new gospel over his squealing carcass: “This is not what I had in mind at all, y’all.”
But I’m not betting the rancho on it.
I did catch a few sprinkles on my run, mostly on the return trip. But they added up to bupkis on the rain gauge.
So naturally I’m sitting here wondering whether I should’ve gone for a ride instead.
But, chance being the fickle bitch that she is, Jeebus is probably waiting out there to give me the other sandal in the chamois and proclaim, “Nope, not him either. Sheesh, you people and your false prophets. Do I have to hire a babysitter every time I step out for a couple thousand years?”
