We’re all bozos on this bus. Some of us more than others.
Ronald McDonald’s criminal brother Donald doesn’t exactly inspire me to hit the drive-thru.
Not in the traditional sense, anyway.
I wonder if the folks who actually do a job of work at this location — which was closed to the public for this campaign stunt — got paid for the day.
The union that represents food service workers called this dime-store clown show “a slap in the face to the men and women who work those jobs in real life and make a poverty wage of $7.25 an hour in Pennsylvania.”
What do you suppose would’ve happened if this Mickey D’s had been closed to the public if Fatso just happened to drop by for his usual — two Big Macs, two Filet-O-Fish burgers, and a large chocolate milkshake? He’d have probably told his SS detail to send the grunts to Gitmo and burn the joint to the ground.
Fall color remains elusive at the bosque. But it’s still a fine place to ride the ol’ bikey-bike on a Tuesday morning.
The 32-mile loop I did is about two-thirds easy-breezy like a Cover Girl. But the last bit from Mountain and Broadway back to El Rancho Pendejo has about a thousand feet of vertical in it. And since most of the climbing stacks up on the back side it sorta gets a fella’s attention.
As does the ongoing devolution of TFG. When the legacy media finally start catching on, you know that shit is dire.
I got to throw a rare double bird during a ride this past weekend.
Rounding a corner I saw a yard sign for TFG to my left … and then another across the street to my right.
“O! The Joy!” William Clark must have felt like this when he thought he’d finally seen the Pacific “ocian.” In honor of the Corps of Discovery I gave the placards the salute they deserved.
It’s little things like this that keep me on a slow simmer instead of a rolling boil.
As a longtime observer and occasional chronicler of our national political bed-wetting, I have felt compelled for some years now to watch and describe what appears — to me, anyway — to be a brain-damaged orangutan dry-humping the Statue of Liberty.
But damme if the lifting doesn’t get heavier every day. And I’m an old man, with a bad back.
So I lift with my legs. Which is to say that when I feel some crucial part of me starting to give way, I go for a ride, letting my legs lift my flagging spirit.
A bicycle can bear a lot of weight. You can trust me on this: I was a great fat bastard when I returned to cycling after a long absence, and that first two-wheeler had to carry a lot of baggage.
So have its descendants. But the tonnage these days is less Marlboro breath and whiskey sweat, more inchoate rage and existential dread.
That’s hard weight to shed, and not even the bicycle can get it all off you. But it definitely helps, especially if you try not to put the pounds right back on as soon as you get home.
• Pro tip: Try wearing a heart-rate monitor when you scan the news. When you find yourself surfing a hate-wave through Zone 5, remember that there is no Zone 6. Not in this lifetime, anyway. Grab a bike and get the hell out of the house.
“We are all droogs, but somebody has to be in charge. Right? Right?”
Appy polly loggies, droogies, but I could not watch last night’s “debate” between Coach Walz and Clockwork Orange.
I made it past the explanation of the rules and maybe two questions in and then yelped “Out out out out!” like a doggie.
Bedways was rightways as I saw it. We weren’t going to learn anything from this gloopy chepooka that would change our rassoodocks about these two chellovecks.
The Coach seems a proper moodge who plays by the rules while Clockwork Orange is anything but. He’s a smart, mean grahzny bratchny who would steal the coppers off his dead granny’s eyes for his ante into the Big Game, with a few aces up the old sleeve courtesy of his prestoopnik pals.
And you don’t fight him with facts. A cutthroat britva is what a lewdie needs for this lot, O my brothers.
• O my brothers (and sisters): If you’re not conversant with the nadsat dialect Anthony Burgess devised for his characters, you’ll have to hunt down a glossary. Burgess was opposed to such assistance, but one of my copies went against his wishes.
It isn’t golf, but you can still score a hole in one.
The New York Times has a piece headlined “The Star-Making Machine That Created ‘Donald Trump,'” which I decline to read or link to, because I suspect Mother Times doesn’t take credit for her own heavy lifting on that project (see “But her emails!”, etc.).
If you have a greater interest in the Who Gives a Shit? File than I do, you’ll have to do some hunting to find the thing, because the NYT yanked it off the top of the homepage and buried it on page three of a search under his name after the carny barker found himself in the shooting gallery again.
Now, I am not in favor of summary execution of those who commit golf, not even TFG. Some unbalanced types insist on playing with their little white balls in public, and for most an extended period of confinement in a psych ward or correctional facility should restore them to a semblance of mental health, or at least keep them off the lawn in what should be public parks, available to all free of charge.
Anyway, for the Clown Prince of Mar-a-Lardo it’s not even about “playing” golf, which is just something else he lies about and cheats at. It’s another day at the office, a fundraising opportunity.
As Billy Penn once said, “The tallest trees are most in the power of the winds, and ambitious men of the blasts of fortune.”
And thus the Clown Prince finds himself as a supporting character in a new reality series, “Duck & Cover,” in which a conga line of heavily armed loons has a go at a maniac masquerading as a presidential candidate on the campaign trail.
Bit of a comedown, from star to second banana. Oh, well, it’s a living. Awaiting a blast of fortune indeed.
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