Every time I see one of these headlines — “Trump Is Warned of Possible Indictment Over Jan. 6 Attack” — I remind myself of childhood Christmases.
First, I rarely got everything on my list.
Second, Santa had his own list.
And third — he wasn’t really Santa!
“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.
Ho hum. Just another morning in America.
Get up, make coffee and toast, watch E. Lawn Mulch blow something up and call it a success, start a new loaf of bread, tidy up the kitchen, police Miss Mia’s litter boxes, follow Herself to the Honda dealership to drop off the CR-V for its annual physical, write something.
It’s 4/20, but getting stoned is not on the agenda. E. Lawn may light ’em up on April 20, but not Your Humble Narrator. Been there, done that, got the T-shirt.
Sheeeyit, I got higher than Starship back in 1973, man.
Herself is putting the finishing touches on our income-tax paperwork this morning.
She’s refreshingly scrupulous that way. Even though the Repugs have whittled the IRS down to one half-senile retiree from H&R Block clocked in for 10 hours per week from a memory-care facility in Muscatine, Iowa, Herself dutifully catalogs what we’ve paid and what we owe (or are owed).
I really don’t mind paying taxes. That is, I wouldn’t mind, if everyone paid their fair share and the money didn’t get pissed away on stupid shit.
For instance, I’d like to see more money spent on food, housing, and health care for the needy and less chucked into gold-plated, diamond-studded, unreliably airborne shredders like the F-35, which Charles Pierce calls “The Flying Swiss Army Knife.”
But then I’d like to see a lot of things that will never happen. Hair on my head. A Moots Routt YBB in my garage. Adolf Twitler frog-marched to Rikers on Tuesday.
Yeah, right. As if. That last item stinks to high heaven of the manic desperation of a shunned kindergartner all alone in a corner of the playground. “Look at me! Look at me! Look at me!”
I wonder what his SS detail would do if the John Laws came for him, bearing chrome bracelets.
“Can we maybe shoot him just a little bit? We’re sure he’ll try to resist arrest, if Fox sends a camera crew. Oh, come on, just a few dozen rounds, no vital organs. We need the practice. He won’t let us go to the range. We have to bus tables and mow fairways for the son of a bitch.”
“It’s a winter wonderland out there!” Herself exclaimed last night.
“No way,” I replied. Last I’d looked, just minutes earlier, it was raining.
“Totally,” she said.
So I looked again, and as usual, she was right. Coming down like Chinese balloons it was.
The forecast has been something of a combo platter for the past few days, as the weather wizards try to cover all the bases (rain, snow, sleet, wind, plague of toads, bloody stones, UFOs, zombie apocalypse, etc.).
With this in mind I availed myself of a pleasant 90-minute ride on Stupor Sunday (48° and sunny). Then yesterday Herself and I enjoyed a short trail run (54° and sunny with a stiff wind out of the SSW).
That breeze — Yahweh’s postal service — was apparently what delivered three of the predictors’ prognostications more or less at once last evening: wind, rain, and snow.
I never know what’s going to be in these packages once I unwrap them — big box of nothin’ or visit to the chiropractor — so I got up way too early this morning and had another look-see.
Oh, goody. About an inch and a half of feathery fluff, but still some moisture to it. Good for the trees.
I broomed the driveway clear for Herself’s launch to the lab and skedaddled back indoors, where the coffee would be once I got around to making some. First things first, as the fella says. If I let any kind of snow sit on that north-facing black-diamond driveway of ours on Valentine’s Day it will stay there until St. Patrick’s Day. Maybe Easter.
And now, we get right back on that meteorological roller coaster (rain, snow, sleet, wind, plague of toads, bloody stones, UFOs, zombie apocalypse, etc.). Also, keep a weather eye out for smoke blowing up your ass.
Naw, it’s not another controlled burn gone sideways. Just Nikki Haley’s presidential campaign. I’m not hearing any fire alarms.
Mad Blog Media 