After the results of the pestilential erection came in I decided to leave our Halloween lights up through Christmas.
It was just my way of saying “Jesus Christ!”
I may leave them up until the results of the next pestilential erection come in. Assuming we have another one, that is.
My little boneheads are considerably brighter than the MAGA dimbulbs, but those low-wattage loudmouths may actually be more illuminating in at least one respect. They provide a daily reminder that we must walk some distance in darkness.
Rather than curse that darkness, I light my candles. They have their joke, and I have mine.
Happy holidays from Herself, Miss Mia Sopaipilla, and Your Humble Narrator.
When the John Laws collared their suspect in the CEO assassination he was said to have had in his possession a ghost gun, some fake I.D., and a 262-word “manifesto.”
A 262-word manifesto?
By the ghosts of Marx and Engels! That’s what I call phoning it in.
Except our man didn’t use a phone to compose it. Or a laptop. It was handwritten. Whether on papyrus, stone tablets, or a shithouse wall was not made clear.
What is abundantly clear, however, is that 262 words do not a manifesto make. And let me tell you why.
Yes, yes, yes, it’s time for another political-science fiction episode of Radio Free Dogpatch.
The headline is an inside joke among family and friends, a line of dialogue lifted from the 1978 novel “Panama,” by Thomas McGuane.
And now it’s the title of a Radio Free Dogpatch podcast, an unsubtle bit of misdirection concerning an oversized orange turd that has proven impossible for a confused and bilious nation to flush.
There was no such turd when Chet Pomeroy spoke the line in McGuane’s book. But there is in the podcast. My apologies to Mr. McGuane. I hope he thinks of me, if he thinks of me at all, as having conducted myself with some forethought “as a screaming misfit, a little on the laid-back side.”
Meanwhile, always flush at least twice. It’s a long way to Mar-a-Lago.
What, you haven’t heard they have a National Mall in DeeCee?
Wherever shalt thou see a man on horseback, there also shalt thou see a horse’s ass. And sometimes more than one of them, too.
The endless pearl-clutching in the national media over Orange Julius Caesar doing exactly what we all expected he would do has me longing to grab some button-down editor a little lower — by the family jewels — and drag him around the room, growling like a mad dog.
Which of course is what I am.
But that would be wrong. Fun, but wrong.
So I’ll just leave you with that improbable visual and this all-too-probable audio — yes, yes, yes, it’s time for a Shakespearean edition of Radio Free Dogpatch.
• Technical notes: Still loving the Ethos mic from Earthworks Audio; Audio-Technica ATH-M50X headphones; Zoom H5 Handy Recorder; Apple’s GarageBand, and Auphonic for a sonic colonic. If it ain’t broke, etc. The gibbons and fanfare are courtesy of Freesound. Wrestling action comes to you from an old clip on YouTube. The cartoon tune, “Out of Step,” comes from Zapsplat. All the other bad noise is courtesy of Your Humble Narrator.
Looks all Dr. Hunter S. Thompsonesque, but this shit wouldn’t get a fly high.
I haven’t had a good hard sock in the snotlocker since the Before-Time, when I was shambling around half -drunk among the sneezers, wheezers and squeezers infesting the Interbike trade show in Sin City, chronicling the ups and downs of the bicycle biz for one magazine or another.
But I got one this fall, the sort that requires medical intervention, and just in time for the 2024 pestilential erection, too.
A daily fistful of antibiotics and steroids may cure what ails the sinuses but doesn’t do shit for the psyche as the electorate inexplicably sends the Clown Prince of Mar-a-Lago and his battalion of bozos back to the Oval Office to finish the job of putting the Republic up on blocks and stripping it for salable parts.
I can’t find a physician’s assistant who’ll write me a ’scrip for mescaline, psilocybin, or Old Reliable, the fabled L-S-Dizzy, not even at urgent care. And oy, is this ever a case for urgent care.
So I guess we’ll have to rely on talk therapy. Which means – yes, yes, yes —it’s time for another dose of Radio Free Dogpatch. Sorry; doctor’s orders. Look on the bright side — it’s not a suppository.
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