“Sure, I can send that message, but I think they already got it.”
Anybody who didn’t see this coming hasn’t been paying attention. Dude telegraphed this shit like ol’ Sam’l Morse.
Sure, there are legal options to explore. But this dude likes getting sued. Especially when he’s spending other people’s money on both sides of the argument.
“Top threat to the U.S. … hmm, lemme think for a minute. Can you give me a hint? ‘Fat, dumb, mean, orange?’ Nope, doesn’t ring a bell.”
This should be a short hearing. I mean, it should be. Doesn’t mean it will be.
• Update: Il Douche’s own minions seem to think he is full of orange shit, from clodhoppers to combover. It’s a helluva commentary on your fabled deal-making and management skills when your people are saying — out loud and in public — that you’re building Walls® in all the wrong places.
Something else I can do better than King Donald the Short-fingered:
Get a Wall® built.
What’s all this fuss about a Wall®?
I had a Wall® done yesterday. Easy peasy. Spanish-speakers were involved, though they declined to pay for my border-security project. And it wasn’t a Wall® from scratch, but rather enhancements to an existing Wall®.
But still, as you see, here we are. And nobody had to work for free, take on a second job, or go to a food bank over it.
A tip of Dr. Dogbyte’s scrub cap to Terry Gilliam’s “Twelve Monkeys.”
OK, lemme see if I have this right here:
It’s a disgrace to ask whether the pestilence of the Benighted States is a useful idiot stooging for the Russians.
But it’s OK to ask whether his predecessor was a Kenyan Muslim socialist not born in this country.
Got it.
Nothin’ but blue Skys do I see.
Sky will leave pro cycling at the end of next season to focus on other projects, according to The Guardian.
One of these projects includes Sky Ocean Rescue, a push to encourage businesses and individuals to give up single-use plastic.
Was the Wiggins jiffy bag plastic? I can’t recall. But Froome’s gotta be, though you can’t argue that Sky only got a single use out of him.
Hey, what could I tell you? Times are tough. WADA ya gonna do?
MARA the Tempter is always on the job. Though not necessarily with a rake.
• A tip of the bracero’s sombrero for the news nugget goes out to Merrill “M-Dogg” Oliver, a Noo Yawkah turned Californicator who is something of a rake in his own right.
Someone has a short fuse for the fake news.
Never fear. They missed me.
This egg cooker is seven years younger than I am.
And unlike me, it still works.
With the Supreme Court slamming the Wayback Machine into overdrive, hellbent for the good ol’ Dred Scott days, it seemed appropriate to fiddle with some obsolete technology here at El Rancho Pendejo.
So yesterday I gave my G4 AGP Graphics “Sawtooth” Power Mac (1999) a brand-new LG monitor. The Mac has a DVI-I port, the monitor has an HDMI port, I had a DVI-D-to-HDMI cable, and somehow it all works, smoove like butta; go figure.
Afterward I broke out the Bloo Wazoo (1980s-vintage 7-speed, single-ring 105) for an enjoyable hour of trail riding.
And today we test-drove a vintage Sunbeam automatic egg cooker (1961) that Herself unearthed at an estate sale. We were a little light on water the first time around but the second go was spot on.
When that cooker was brand-spankin’-new, Ruth Bader Ginsburg was a 28-year-old research assistant with the Columbia Law School Project on International Procedure, having been rejected for a clerkship with Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter on the basis of her gender.
I wonder how she feels about seeing that rear-view mirror turn into a windshield. Probably feels like boiling somebody’s huevos, is my guess.
To drain the swamp, one must become the swamp. Or something like that.
Just think: If Lil’ Donny Trump had gone into RoboHoes® instead of real estate, he might not have needed all his daddy’s cash plus an atomic shit-ton of fraud, tax dodges and Christ knows what all to crank up his little used-car-salesman-does-Vegas act.
A stable of Trump Humps™ might have saved him a few porn-star payoffs and a couple divorce settlements, too. Make Junior mop up afterward. That’s money in the bank right there.
Houston, we have a problem: Robot brothels.
From our You Can’t Make This Shit Up Department comes this sordid tale of e-hoes (iHoes?) in a town that’s up to its tits in the old-school flesh-and-blood models.
At the root of the problem is Kinky S Dolls, a Canadian outfit that claims to be the first AI sex-doll outfit to offer test drives. Seems our horny neighbor to the north wants to bend Houston over for its initial thrust into the U.S. market.
Hold your whoreses, say local Christians, coppers and politicos.
“This is not the kind of business I would like to see in Houston, and certainly this is not the kind of business the city is seeking to attract,” says Mayor Sylvester Turner.
And the not-for-profit group Elijah Rising has begun a “Keep Robot Brothels Out of Houston” online petition “that as of Monday had more than 12,600 signatures.” according to The Guardian.
But this is Texas, goddamnit, and at least one columnist says the goldurned gummint has no bi’ness telling a fella what to do with his tallywhacker and his android love muffin (the pearl-necklace metaphor seems particularly apt in this instance).
Anyway, just think of the jobs! No, not that kind of job, the other sort, which come to think about it is not that different from the kind you’re thinking of, especially if you’re the one who has to clean up the rent-a-robot between clients. It’s enough to give a fella the blues.
Hit it, Steve:
And they say Texas weather’s always changin’
And one thing change’ll bring is somethin’ new
And Houston really ain’t that bad a town
So you hang around with the Fort Worth blues
Patrick O'Grady sells words and pictures to Adventure Cyclist, Bicycle Retailer and Industry News, and pretty much anyone else who can spell his name correctly next to the phrase which sounds so musical to his aged ears: "Pay to the order of. ..." For more on Your Humble Narrator, click the comic.
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