A tip of the Mad Dog fedora to Marc Maron, who reminded me of this quote.
On pestilential debates
Category: Deep political thought
The Four Horses’ Asses of the Apocalypse
A neighbor rang our doorbell a few minutes ago to advise us that the Cowboys for Trump were parading down Comanche, practically dancing in our laps.
Naturally, I grabbed the iPhone, hopped on a bike, and rolled out to collect a few memories.
I’m told that there were four riders on horseback leading the thing. I suppose the irony eludes them, as do many other things.
Including that they inspired my neighbor to drop everything and go vote — for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.
Two weeks
Hard to believe, innit? Wasn’t it just the other day that we were all sitting in front of our TVs as the election returns began unfolding like the wings of a giant vampire bat, or maybe Rodan the Flying Monster, and we began discussing our options for the next four years?
“Ireland?”
“No, too damp. I’d start drinking again for sure.”
“Canada?”
“Too nice. We wouldn’t fit in. I wouldn’t, anyway.”
“Argentina?”
“Hey, if we wanted to while away the hours around a bunch of old Nazis we could just move back to Bibleburg.”
Now, suddenly, here we are, two weeks away from our last chance to chase Adolf Twitler and his Brown Noses out of the White House before they finish gutting the place like crackheads stripping a squat for its copper wire.
I was running a couple errands yesterday and took another glance at our neighborhood polling place as I passed. The line was even longer than on Saturday, this time stretching all the way around two sides of the strip mall and out of my sight as I barreled down Montgomery in the usual thundering herd of honking land yachts.
I chose to interpret this as a good sign. No, not the land yachts. The line. Angry people ring other people up, write letters to the editor, and vote.
I choose to hope — yes, there’s that word again — that this time the right people are angry for the right reasons.
Yeah, yeah, I know. “Hope in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up faster.”
Still, what the hell else can you do? Unless you like living in a Tom Waits song. …
Three weeks
Miss Mia Sopaipilla has the right idea here.
I was following her lead earlier this morning. Herself arose at stupid-thirty, as is her practice. I remained abed, head buried ostrichlike under the covers, hoping that if I just stayed under wraps for a while everything that annoyed me would go away.
Nope.
I got out of the sack three weeks too early. Give or take a couple months of lawyering.
Is it really three weeks until we get our next chance to roust this crime family? I’d give a healthy organ to see a “Cops”-style perp walk, with a disheveled Don Cornholio frog-marched to the paddywagon in guinea tee and cuffs. But this may prove elusive since La Hosa Nostra has spent the past three years and change packing the nation’s benches with capos, soldatos, and other reliable associates.
“It’s a fair cop, but society is to blame.”
“Right, we’ll arrest them instead.”
El Choad
How many times do you think Adolf Twitler has seen “El Cid,” anyway?
Indestructible warrior of God struck down in mid-battle springs miraculously back to life (or so it would seem) to smite the ANTIFA milling around the property.
The writers played it a bit fast and loose with the truth back in 1961, too. As Alex von Tunzelmann noted at The Guardian in 2013, before El Choad rode his golden escalator into the fray, the epic “leaves the facts wounded and strewn haphazardly across the battlefield. …”
The facts fare even worse in this remake, in which El Choad actually survives. Whether the rest of us survive El Choad remains to be seen.
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