The Wicked Witch of the White House thinks Beelzebozo can chant “Habeas corpus!” and make people disappear.
Uh, no.
If I were the secretary of homeland security and I couldn’t even secure my purse at a burger joint, I might keep my pancaked, plumped-up piehole shut for a spell.
I hope Sen. Maggie Hassan was wearing gloves when she handed this bimbo’s ass to her. Oz only knows what she’s been up to with those flying monkeys.
I’m a sucker for a good road-trip story.
“On the Road.” “Travels with Charley.” “Blue Highways.” “Not Fade Away.” The list goes on and on and on.
Here’s another one, from Colum McCann, author of “Let the Great World Spin.”
Headlined “The Church of the Open Road” — perhaps a riff on “The Church of the Rotating Mass,” which may be a Maurice “Dirt Rag” Tierney creation — it’s McCann’s recollection of a bike tour some four decades ago. On the road to nowhere, or so he thought when he set out.
A Catholic when he began, he encountered tiny Louisiana chapels and Texas megachurches, Southern Baptists and holy rollers (no pun intended). Slept in a pew, worked in a church camp. Inclined to listening, open to revelation, he collected stories as he went.
I won’t spoil this story by summarizing it. Give it a read.
Also, cast not your eyes upon the illustration. There may be some hidden meaning in there, but if so, it is obscured by a lack of historical verisimilitude. Forty years ago bicycles had neither integrated brake/shift levers nor disc brakes (especially not on the drive side). They did, however, have chainrings (and chains), freewheels, pedals, and external cables.
A journey of a thousand miles may begin with a single pedal stroke. But for Christ’s’ sake, you gotta have the pedals.
Much chin music among the chattering classics lately re: the hackneyed “his first 100 days” bushwa.
This is the ho, and also the hum.
In his first 100 minutes he took a giant shit on us and then wiped his ass with the Constitution.
We’re just waiting for him to come out of the toilet now, is what.
Maybe the old bastard nodded off in there. Smells like he died in there. Christ, light a match, can’t ya?
I see The Media have a couple new chew toys this morning — a brain-dead SecDef and a completely dead pope.
That should fill The Void for a nanosecond or two.
Now we await the various conclaves. If we see black smoke from the Pentagon, that means that SecDef Yog-Sothoth has burned his Signal passwords and has gone back to using NextDoor for all secure communications involving war plans, pub crawls, and no-strings hookups.
White smoke means that Baby Daddy Musk has sent him on ahead to set up shop on Mars.
Red smoke from the Office of the Vice President means that Hillbilly Boy has failed to convince his god that he had nothing to do with his pope’s death, even though he was one of the last people to see him alive.
Fwooosh! Straight From servicing Beelzebozo to serving Beelzebub in one seriously hot DeeCee minute. Not exactly upward mobility, is it? Sure as shit ain’t the golden escalator Beelzebozo rode down back in 2015, either. More like that elevator ride that Mickey Rourke took at the end of “Angel Heart.”
And the pope? Well … Dad was a ring-kisser, Mom was a Presbyterian, and I turned out to be neither. So I haven’t paid much attention to Holy Mother Church since 1978, when I was still a newspaperman in Bibleburg and we burned through a couple of popes in a month.
If I recall correctly, which is unlikely considering the circumstances, we had finished newspapering for the evening and had retired to Jinx’s Place for cocktails.
A late arrival burst in, as they will do, and told us the pope had just died.
“Catch up,” we replied. “That was last month.”
“That was the old guy,” our informant revealed. “This was the new guy.”
And soon we had a new new guy, to be dubbed “J2P2,” because back then newspaper people knew how to treat anyone who claimed to speak with God’s voice, whether they were in Vatican City or DeeCee.
Hoo-lawd. Anybody’s portfolio turn into a postcard yet?
In case you’ve missed Paul Krugman, he’s speculating over at Substack that Elon’s Hitler Youth may have cobbled together the tariff scheme using ChatGPT and/or other A.I. models.
In my post immediately following the Trump announcement I speculated that Elon Musk’s Dunning-Kruger kids might be responsible for those tariff numbers. That now looks like a distinct possibility.
Who makes policy this way? The key point is that Trump isn’t really trying to accomplish economic goals. This should all be seen as a dominance display, intended to shock and awe people and make them grovel, rather than policy in the normal sense.
Again, I’m not being snobbish here. When the fate of the world economy is on the line, the malignant stupidity of the policy process is arguably as important as the policies themselves. How can anyone, whether they’re businesspeople or foreign governments, trust anything coming out of an administration that behaves like this?
Good time to be heavily invested in the knee- and elbow-pad markets.
Mad Blog Media 