Category: Derision

Agua fria

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 13 Comments
‘Twas but a dribble. But welcome nonetheless.

Hijo, madre. It finally rained.

Well, kinda, sorta. Still, it was enough for the National Weather Service to declare an end — or at least an intermission — to the fifth longest dry streak since 1891.

“All in all, it’s nothing to write home about,” said NWS meteorologist Randall Hergert.

Oh, I dunno. Maybe a quick email:

Dear Mom,

Not on fire. Yet. Please send fire-retardant jammies for my birthday.

Love,

Patrick

Elsewhere, I see Steve Bannon is at loose ends. Never fear, he’ll land on his feet. Just as soon as he pulls them out of his mouth.

And the Republicans aren’t waiting around to get tossed out like Sloppy Steve. They’re running — not for re-election, but for the exits. Even Obama’s bestie Darrell Issa has seen the light, the way a roach does right before it scuttles under the stove.

Meanwhile, what the fuck is it with The New York Times and its pix of elevator doors closing on fascists? Cut that shit out. Seriously. You can bring the concept back when it’s lids closing on coffins.

Busy, busy, busy

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 7 Comments
The president was riveted by Comey’s testimony.

And not just me, either: While we were all entranced with “The Comey Show,” the House GOP was continuing the Lord’s work, which is to say hotwiring the Republic and tooling on over to the Thieves Paradise Chop Shop.

Look for that crowd to redouble its efforts before it comes out that the real Donald Trump croaked back in the Eighties while horning lines off Russian hookers three at a time and this bozo is an old KGB pro with a new face.

I’ll confess that I only watched a little of Comey’s testimony. As soon as Little Marco’s earnest, sweaty mug popped onto The New York Times video feed, I kitted up and shot out the door for a bike ride before it got too bloody hot here, too.

I wonder who was tasked with holding the elephant tranquilizers for Don Clementino while his piggy little eyes took it all in. Probably President Bannon. I bet he even pre-chewed ’em for the poor little tyke.

Boom-boom, sailor?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 15 Comments
Mr. Ivanka of Hollywood models the latest beachwear during a visit to Iraq.

Darth Cheeto donned his big black helmet yesterday and — after advising any Rooskies in the vicinity to take it on the Jesse Owens — ordered a barrage of ship-launched cruise missiles against a Syrian airfield, in retaliation for a chemical-weapons attack said to have killed 80 civilians.

Foreign Policy magazine and more than a few politicians of all stripes have questioned the thinking behind and legality of the strike. Congress, naturally, is sprawled on the couch, watching cable news and gobbling popcorn, happy to have someone else in control of the remote while occasionally shouting, “This show sucks!”

These things are always “targeted” strikes “in the vital national interest” and not at all acts of war, of course. And it goes without saying that they have nothing to do with bolstering anyone’s sagging poll numbers, or drawing the One Big Eye away from legislative failures, broken promises and tensions within the Praetorian Guard. Nor could there have been any messaging in the timing of the attack (while hosting President Xi Jinping of China at Mar-a-Lago).

I guess this is why Mr. Ivanka of Hollywood was modeling that stylish Kevlar-blazer combo in Iraq yesterday. The Chinese apparently have yet to supply the matching handbag, but you can’t have everything, y’know. War is heck.

Project Jagoff

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 19 Comments

https://youtu.be/yJ-lcdMfziw

And now, from our Just Fucking Shoot Me Department, comes the news that Levi’s and Google’s ATAP division have teamed up for a “smart” denim jacket, slated to be released this fall for $350.

“Project Jacquard,” they call the technology. For those of you who don’t parlez the français, that’s pronounced “jag-off.”

I’m thinking this garment will be smarter than many of the people who buy it. My best guess is that the Levi’s Commuter Trucker Jag-et is an ruse to soften us up for the jeans (call ’em Levi’s 666). Look for Guccifer 3.0 to hack ’em and pants every hipster in America at once as they bend over to lock their bespoke fixies to the railings at java joint/artisanal alehouse/toast café patios nationwide.

That oughta uncurl their moustaches.