I don’t suppose it has anything to do with knowing that he’d come out looking like a purse dog that went three rounds with the Hound of the Baskervilles.
No, better he should stay all bunkered up, hiding behind various knaves, minions, and varlets, tweeting like a hyperactive budgie, and wait until The Turtle can run interference for him in the Senate, where he has the home-field advantage.
I’d like to have the lip-balm and breath-mint concessions at that ass-kissing contest. A couple days of the big money and I could retire, is what.
No, your eyes do not deceive you. That is a story in the Colorado Springs Sun, mentioning President Nixon, written by Your Humble Narrator in the Year of Our Lord 1974.
Thank Cthulhu I’m not an artist like Russell Chatham. We hacks have a safety net.
Here’s mine: This past weekend, Herself signed me up to start collecting Socialist Insecurity payments beginning in March 2020. If I live that long, and assuming that Agent Orange doesn’t redirect all SS monies to his Wall or his wallet, I will receive a princely sum indeed, each and every month.
After accounting for inflation, it’s roughly equal to what I was paid as a copy boy back in 1974, when I first got into the writing racket.
I figure I can score a used Chevy Express 1500 for about 12 large. The monthly payments should take about 18 percent of my income, which sounds about right. The camping gear I’ve already got.
And parking down by the river? It’s free! Winning!
The backyard maple is giving up the ghost, just in time for Halloween.
Elections should not be held as the days grow shorter, darker and colder.
One is not inclined toward optimism or fellowship as the furnace begins clicking, on and off, on and off. Our better selves are very much not in evidence. What we’re thinking about is not how we might strive together to build a brighter future, but rather which of our neighbors we would kill and eat first when the power goes out, the grocery stores have been stripped of toothsome tidbits, and the backyard gardens have been grazed down to the bedrock.
Which is the scenic route toward saying, yeah, I punched the buttons that activate the Compound’s heating systems last night. Also, and moreover, I am wearing pants this morning. The horror … the horror.
But at least I am in my own house, unlike at least one of my people out in Santa Rosa. My man Merrill has fled south to his brother’s pad in Hell A, which may be called an improvement only because Hell A is not currently on the barbie. Yet.
When last heard from, Mayor Chris was sheltering in place and continuing his bid to become Commissioner Chris. More from that smoke-filled room as I hear it.
One wonders about the mood of the electorate in Sonoma County. If PG&E were a candidate for anything other than a vigorous tarring and feathering I would predict a massive beating that would make Nixon-McGovern look like a friendly rub-and-tug in a Healdsburg hot tub.
But who knows? The People are a fickle bunch, and winter is coming. They might just elect PG&E president.
Mad Blog Media 