The dump is closed, all the wrong people are in cuffs, and there ain’t enough SNAP in the EBT for turkey but there’s a big ol’ ham living large in the White House.
Oh, well. We can still sing. Sing loud. You know the words.
Category: Deep political thought
O, brother. …
I’ll spare you my “hot take” on the latest capitulation by the Democrats, noting only that if we were ever to get serious about governance in this Republic, we could revive the domestic splintery rail, tar, and feather industries in a fortnight. Maybe less.
Jesus H. Christ on a flatcar. I believe these eejits could fall into a barrel of tits and come out sucking their thumbs. Bringing a knife to a gunfight would be a remarkable escalation for this lot. A one-armed monkey could carve a better party out of a banana, using a single strand of al dente pasta.
Fuck these people. I’m going back to the commies. At least they go down swinging.
Meanwhile, to any who remain with the Jackasses: Primary ’em all, let God sort ’em out.
To the BikeCave!
Always the Joker, hey?
Well, it can’t be politics 24/7 around here, even after a rare November blizzard of good news that nevertheless was not quite good enough to exorcise Beelzebozo from the body politic.
Denied the explosive hemorrhagic stroke of our dreams — well, mine, anyway, especially if it takes place on live TV — the Republic remains possessed. I’m surprised he’s not trying to grab the Beaver Moon with his stubby little fingers. We’re gonna need a bigger priest.
Happily, the weather has been spectacular for the distracting bikey ridey, with highs in the 70s and hardly any wind, which is unheard of in New Mexico. Shucks, it’s already just two degrees short of 60 at 9 in the a.m.
While we wait for winter to set in, if it ever does, I’ve been dialing back the weekly mileage and airing out some dusty machinery. Getting the callup in the past couple weeks: Rivendell’s Sam Hillborne, both Steelman Eurocrosses (it is cyclocross season), the Jones, DBR Axis TT, and New Albion Privateer.
Today may see the Voodoo Wazoo getting a little dirt on its knobs. Or p’raps the Bianchi Zurigo Disc, which as the only alloy-framed, carbon-forked, SRAM-controlled steed in the shed is definitely the odd man out, especially when it’s sporting 32mm Conti slicks, as it is at the moment.
Whenever I wander off into these seasonal inspection tours, in the back of my mind I’m thinking idly about thinning the velo-herd. But I notice that despite my best intentions there remains nary a hook unburdened in the garage with a few more two-wheelers parked on the deck.
N+1, baby; n+1.
Dick Cheney dies, goes to Hell
If you can’t say anything nice … well, let’s get started!
Dick Cheney was smart, mean, and a brass-balled traitor to the spirit of America who thought the Constitution a motley collection of outdated recommendations and never missed a chance to pants Lady Justice whenever she had her back turned.
He made his bones in Richard Nixon’s White House, hitching a ride there on Donald Rumsfeld’s coattails, and then hung around DeeCee in various capacities, improving the nation’s governance in the same way an untended and freshly dead raccoon under a porch improves a home’s resale value.
A five-deferment draft dodger turned back-office warmonger, Cheney helped leave a trail of bodies, ours and theirs, in Panama, Haiti, Somalia, Kuwait, Afghanistan, and Iraq. He shot one of his own friends in the face during a quail hunt and the friend apologized for all the fuss. But Cheney never copped to fucking up, in that instance or any of the other bloody debacles in which he played a role.
Cheney was a big fan of the sort of fascist cosplay we’ve come to see from the present occupant of the Oval Office — the USA Patriot Act, warrantless surveillance, indefinite detentions sans hearings or charges, brutal interrogations, etc. — but only when he had the president’s ear. Thus he was not a fan of his fellow draft dodger, the serial bankrupt and convicted felon presently turning the White House into a Gilded Palace of Sin (h/t Gram Parsons and Charles P. Pierce).
So, when he finally got the “strong, robust executive authority” of his dreams, Cheney decided he didn’t care for it. It wouldn’t take his calls.
Now he’s off to join his old mentor Rumsfeld in the afterlife, where — according to some religious traditions, anyway — another strong, robust executive authority awaits him.
I don’t know whether that head of state will require his advice, either. He seems to be doing just fine without it. Shucks, Hell isn’t half full.
Fall back
Halloween 2025 is dead and buried, but the boogeymen remain very much among us.
And now it’s time — well, nearly so, anyway — to fall back.
This is fine, for as far as it goes, which is not very. It’s 8:45 a.m. as I write this, the temperature is a brisk 42°, and the sun has yet to pop round from behind the Sandias. So tomorrow, once Daylight Saving Time ends, it will be 7:45 a.m. and I’ll have an extra hour to dither over whether I’ll need arm and knee warmers for the day’s ride or can just let it all hang out.
Well, not all, as in everything. One must consider the neighbors. Also, the police.
In any event, getting back one measly hour isn’t going to cut it. Not this year. I want to go all the way back to Nov. 5, 2024, this time to see a different result in that year’s pestilential erection, with the Republican candidate headed for the Big House instead of the White House.
Perhaps the day of reckoning would only be postponed, not eliminated. So be it. All I know for sure is that this timeline ain’t working for me. And I’m not alone. Hell, I’ll bet a bicycle or two that a critical number of people who actually voted for this mess would like to have a do-over, and pronto.
Where’s H.G. Wells when we need him? Lost in the dim mists of Time, more’s the pity.
He I know — for the question had been discussed among us long before the Time Machine was made — thought but cheerlessly of the advancement of mankind, and saw in the growing pile of civilization only a foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy its makers in the end. If that is so, it remains for us to live as though it were not so.
Mad Blog Media 