The “good” news is, beginning July 1 cyclists in New Mexico can enjoy the infamous “Idaho Stop,” which means they can treat red lights as stop signs and stop signs as yields.
The bad news is, they may not be able to see oncoming motor vehicles through the dust storms.
Just another way to get “dusted” in The Duck! City.
When I awakened my watch read 3:33.
“That’s a half-666,” I thought drowsily, trying to recall the details of a dream I’d been having. Something about needing to be somewhere, late as usual, and rooting through a duffel full of colorful short-sleeve shirts and shorts because of course I was butt-ass nekkid.
Then it came to me. Spring. First day of. I awarded myself a soupçon of spring break and dozed until 5.
When I dragged ass out of the sack to pull on some duds I was not looking for a flowered Paddygucci shirt and shorts, because spring in New Mexico debuted at 22°, which called for pants, long-sleeve shirt, and a light fleece vest.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla had already greeted the vernal equinox by blowing a hairball and carpet-bombing the litter box. Herself was clocked in at work, hoping to cash a few more checks before the X-Man decides Sandia National Labs doesn’t need any librarians to tell his DOGEbags where they might find the owner’s manuals for the Death Ray.
Just wing it, fellas. Hit that big red button on the grip and see what comes out the other end. Probably shouldn’t look down the barrel while you’re doing it. Move fast, break things, etc. Whoops, there goes Paris. Serves ’em right for wanting their statue back.
Yeah, Mr. Whitey! Yeah, science! Political science, anyway. Maybe political science fiction.
So, we’re not supposed to buy anything today?
That doesn’t sound like much of a rumble on the Richter scale of resistance to me. “Dang The Man?” Seriously?
A lot of us have already been sold a sizable bill of goods. And as we should’ve known, it’s not the initial cost, it’s the upkeep.
This “grass roots” call for an “economic blackout” feels like a reverse Dubya (“Don’t go shopping.”). It also reminds me of a line from Marc Maron’s 2020 Netflix special, “End Times Fun,” in which he neatly skewers us for smugly slipping our shopping fingers into the crumbling dike of environmental catastrophe:
“All of us in our hearts really know that we did everything we could. Think about it: We brought our own bags to the supermarket. Yeah, that’s about it.”
Elon Musk doesn’t care if you don’t buy a Tesla today. He’s too busy downsizing Social Security into a median and a cardboard placard on a rainy day.
And Jeff Bezos couldn’t give a shit if you skip your Friday visit to the Foods Hole. He’s launching his plastic fuck-puppet into orbit with a couple other “female celebrities.” It’s gonna be like “Sex in the City,” only in space, and with Mister Big down here on earth giving The Washington Post some pillow therapy in its bed at the nursing home.
“The Right Stuff” this isn’t. In fact, it sounds like something the Democratic National Committee would do, if it did anything, which mostly it doesn’t.
Anybody seen the DNC lately? Maybe they’re out shopping for a clue.
The Turtle has decided against running for re-election, saying he plans to spend more time with his money … er, family.
Which is where the bulk of his wealth is said to come from.
According to 2022 financial-disclosure reports, Mitch McConnell has “a net worth between $19 million and $68 million.” Much of this moola derives from his marriage to Elaine Chao, daughter of shipping magnate James Chao. The McConnells received an inheritance valued between $5 million and $25 million in 2007 when her mother died, according to The Washington Post via the Cincinnati Enquirer.
I’m guessing the McConnells won’t be slouching around the mailbox waiting on the Social Security check that will not be forthcoming once the DOGEbags have finished tidying up that messy ol’ feddle gummint he’s finally leaving behind. Not even FEMA will be able to make that dead dog hunt, if only because FEMA will no longer exist.
The Turtle’s venality and the Democrats’ timidity helped bring us to the precipice upon which we teeter. He will not be missed, not even by the players who took comfort in knowing that it was always his turn in the barrel.
Anyway, senators are so 15 minutes ago. We have a king now.
Stuck for a Valentine’s Day gift?
How about snatching up these DOGEbags dry-humping the Statue of Liberty, stuffing them into a Starship, and deporting them to Mars?
No, not the Mars Elon covets. The Mars H.G. Wells envisioned.
See how these bright boys and girls like “intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic” drawing plans against them.
I know I’d love it.
Mad Blog Media 