
That old queen is at it again, this time questioning whether the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, Rep. Adam B. Schiff, should be arrested for treason. For, y’know, like, being a big ol’ blue meanie, an’ stuff.

That old queen is at it again, this time questioning whether the chairman of the House Intelligence Committee, Rep. Adam B. Schiff, should be arrested for treason. For, y’know, like, being a big ol’ blue meanie, an’ stuff.

Old-timers slumped around the Mad Dog cracker barrel will know the impeachment drill from the Clinton and Nixon days.
That said, even us whitebeards can use a bit of continuing education to stay sharp, and political veterano Ed Kilgore provides a useful explainer of our current situation over to New York Magazine, which was just snapped up by Vox Media (another one bites the dust).
The New York Times has another, this one from Charlie Savage.
The Washington Post has one, too, but it feels less authoritative, especially since it suggests that Ginger Hitler could run for re-election if impeached and removed. Article 1, Section 3 of the U.S. Constitution seems pretty clear on that topic when it states: “Judgment in cases of impeachment shall not extend further than to removal from office, and disqualification to hold and enjoy any office of honor, trust or profit under the United States. …”
It’s worth noting, however, that one rarely finds high-priced shysters with a specialty in constitutional law blogging about politics in their skivvies at dark-thirty when they could be logging billable hours. In the unlikely event that the Senate gives Il Douche the shove, I would not be in the least surprised to find them stopping short of the disqualification portion of Article 1, Section 3.
Shit, they might award him a gold watch, a ticker-tape parade, and a teary rub-and-tug by Sean Hannity.

Can we please impeach His Execration now? His Louis XIV act grows wearisome.

As I was getting set to hop in the shower last night I saw movement in my peripheral vision, and holy shit, there was a largish vinegaroon, lurking down by the baseboard near the sink.
I clapped a plastic chile container over him (or her), slid a record album underneath (Stray Cats, “Built for Speed”), and ferried her (or him) out the front door.
We don’t like having scary things scuttling around and about in our house, and we remove them with a minimum of violence as quickly as we are able, because nobody who lives in our house is a fucking idiot.
Speaking of which, “What do we want? When do we want it?” Seriously? Jesus, people, find a new hymn to sing. That’s got as much white hair in its ears as “Hey hey, ho ho.”

Monday is trash pickup day here in the cul-de-sac.
In Rio Gabacho, however, the trash is being delivered.
The good news is, the Mickey D’s on NM 528 is gonna make bank today. Unless he stiffs them, which wouldn’t surprise anyone who’s ever done business with the crooked sonofabitch. One of the SS boys flashes a piece in the drive-thru and that’s that. Another free Happy Meal for ’Is Lardship. So much winning.
The usual protests are planned, of course. Here’s hoping the anarchists stay home, waxing their weasels into their black bandanas and denying the media its both-sides narrative, and that the hippies at Tiguex Park have a couple new chants worked up for the TV cameras. I don’t care how much weed you smoke, that “hey hey, ho ho” shit hit its sell-by date in the Nixon administration.