Well. I see the U.S. House has adjourned to Captain Horatio Huffenpuff’s Hiding Box because some Q pootbutt sent them a mash note.
Apparently the Pancake House Patriots could only afford one night at the Motel 6 in Dumfries, Va. Either that or their ace sapper really has to drop a deuce after two months in a broom closet washing down expired MREs with his own pee and waiting on the “go” code.
Meanwhile, the rest of yis are commanded to show up for duty as per usual. That is all. Dis-miss.
There’s a strong whiff of the dumbass coming out of Texas lately. The directions are printed right there on the soles of the damn’ boots, yet nobody in authority can pour the piss out of them.
Maybe it’s frozen.
But not everyone in the Lone Star State is all hat and no cattle. For instance, there’s Steve Earle, and there’s also Steve Earle talking about the literary qualities of Willie Nelson, which is even better.
And finally, there’s Texas Monthly, with “13 Curses to Mutter Against Ted Cruz While You Boil Snow to Drink.”
Presidents Day, hey? Well, given the events of the weekend, the less said about that, the better, perhaps.
At least he’s an ex. Now all the until-death-do-you-part types know what the other folks are going on about when they talk about “the ex.” Lots of hollering, property damage, relationships shattered, neighbors appalled, cops called, lawyers engaged, and tons of money pounded down the rathole.
Then, if you wind up on the wrong side of the judgment, you try to assemble some sort of new life out of the wreckage as the asshole struts around talking shit.
But hey, at least we’re all freezing our asses off, right? It’s still February. Ten degrees when I arose and tottered to the kitchen to make the first of three authoritative Americanos with my old friend Mr. Krups.
I have been blessed over the decades to have an early riser for a wife. She made the coffee, and all I had to do was show up and drink it. Until Mr. Coffee went Maoist on me.
“From each according to his ability to each according to his needs?” sneered this two-bit Chicom barista-bot. “What you need is a cup of lukewarm bilge, comrade.”
I beg your pardon?
Mr. Coffee was informed in no uncertain terms that his services were no longer required, and now Mr. Krups and I spend a few brief, enchanting moments together each day, in the bleak frosty darkness of a Duke City morning.
At some point I’m going to have to go outside and shift a little snow around. But not just yet. Mr. Krups has just had a marvelous idea — another cuppa.
One thing you do not want to do on a brisk February morning is consider the rampant jackoffery taking place in the U.S. Senate while your spouse tells you how Uncle Sammy plans to hoist you by your ankles for a vigorous shakedown come April 15.
Jesus H., etc. Every one of these posturing poltroons who came into this process focused on rubbing one out while waiting to acquit Impeachy the Clown has betrayed his or her oath to the Constitution and should be run out of town via rail (not the Amtrak variety, but rather the splintery numbers without sleepers or a dining car).
Once delivered to Flyover Country the chickenshits should be issued orange jumpsuits, either too large or too small, equipped with masks crafted from the unlaundered undergarments of Rush Limbaugh, Sean Hannity, and Tucker Carlson, and compelled to pick up roadside refuse, distribute vaccine, and build houses for the homeless.
You got time to doodle, read the paper, and put your feet up while doing the people’s business, you got time to pick up discarded diapers, broken bottles, and used rubbers.
How’s that for justice? The trash picking up the garbage.
Well, I see the SS boys couldn’t keep Impeachy the Clown away from the TV all day yesterday, not even with hourly delivery of Happy Meals soaked in Thorazine.
No, he got word that his Name was being taken in vain, and he clenched his tiny fists and screeched like a gassy toddler, ordering aides to paint iguanas with the names “Raskin,” “Neguse,” and “Castor,” then biting off their heads. The iguanas, not the aides.
The House managers made Impeachy’s second-string legal team look like a couple of drunks pulled randomly from stools at Mar-a-Lago’s 19th hole. Their arguments for not going to trial were basically:
He didn’t do it.
Free speech! He was just sayin’, y’know?
Missed him, missed him, now you gotta kiss him!
Partisan Democrats!
Etc.
The Democrats said: “Let’s go to the tape!” Of which there was plenty.
Jesus H., etc. The writers at “SNL” can take this week off. They can just run with the transcript on this one. Maybe get Horny the Organic Shaman to do the cold open.
I know, I know; Impeachy’s tools could go full-on Clarence Darrow or just sit there and mumble “Fuck you” to everything the House managers say. The outcome is preordained.
But if they ever want to get honest work Castor and Schoen are going to need some more time at the practice tee. And they’ll get it, too. Impeachy is going to stiff them for this shit, and they’re gonna have to sue his fat ass for nonpayment, like everybody else.
Mad Blog Media 