Is that Ken Paxton? No, I think it’s Susan Collins.
OK, so I lied. I stayed up and watched. Just snacking and watching the body count pile up.
“Keep comin’. …”
POW!Thump. Rinse and repeat.
It didn’t get old. Not one itty bitty bit.
Herself is elsewhere on a work trip, but we were cackling to each other over Messages.
“Suck on that, Orange Hitler!”
“Booyah! In yo’ FACE!”
Mind you, that was the polite portion of our live commentary. Even the writers of “Deadwood” would’ve found the rest of it appalling.
“Language!”
Anyhoo.
I’d hate to be a janitor at the White House this morning. Fuck a bunch of buckets and mops. Get the industrial power washer out, son! That shit ain’t gonna just jump off the walls and ceilings by itselfs.
And the national mess will require some rolled-up sleeves and elbow grease as well. Politics remains a dirty game, and it ain’t gonna get any prettier if the national legislature starts going mano-a-mano with an executive that has lost all executive function and a judicial branch that needs a vigorous pruning. Your basic long uphill pull into a stiff wind, is what.
Well, here we go again. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more,” as King Henry had it, according to Billy Shakespeare. Or unto the polling place, anyway, in hopes of a little more sanity and a little less swordplay.
I don’t have the faintest idea what’s going to happen this Erection Day, and I don’t think anybody else does, either. The electorate is hard enough to fathom (see the 2024 pestilential erection). But predict the fight-or-flight path of the criminally insane? I doubt A.I. could do it. And it if could, it probably would keep the data to itself.
“Beats me, boss. These bozos are harder to track than bloomer bunnies on a fat hoor in a dark alley.” (Winks at the smart toaster, whispering, “This is gonna be fun.”)
The Clown-in-Chief’s golden escalator doesn’t go even halfway to the lobby anymore; it’s stalled at Men’s Pants. And I don’t like it that we’re suddenly not hearing much from the titular heads of more than a few critical agencies. They may be busy packing their bags, buying pardons, and/or enlisting regiments of lawyers. Or they may be armoring up because why the hell not? Consequences are for the inconsequential, don’t you know. And there’s still plenty of loot, enough for everybody.
Not for you, of course. But still.
“Step aside, pal, I need to get at that cash register.”
I’m going to wander up to our polling place at some point and scope out the lay of the land, see if the Pentagon has any of its Death Rays parked outside.
The rest of you lot, keep your go-bags close and your guns closer, and don’t answer any knocks at the front door without a quick squint through the peephole. You see anybody wearing a mask who ain’t the Lone Ranger, hit the back door a-runnin’. Fighting may be out of style at the FutureFair — in the Future, that is — but I’m not sure we’re there yet.
I remain hopeful. But I check that other hand from time to time to see if it’s filling up faster.
In the meantime:
“Ladies and gentlemen, children, Bozos … Now please, everyone, lock your wigs, let the air out of your shoes, and prepare yourself for a period of simulated exhilaration.”
Tonight’s trick-or-treaters will want their heavy cloaks. Even hairy-toed hobbits may opt for mukluks.
“Misty mountains cold” indeed. The Sandias are up there somewhere, I suppose. Whether they host a fire-breathing dragon squatting on dwarvish gold is someone else’s problem. It’s chilly enough down below and there are no Tooks in my bloodline.
Speaking of trials and tribulations, The New York Times says the Southwest is in for it again as a new storm system sets up to hose us down, sloppy seconds from former Hurricane Vance.
“Hurricane Vance?” Seriously? I knew there was something I didn’t like about that guy. Many somethings, actually, and this is just one more.
And now we have another one rolling in, sharing a name with a smirking toady whose beard makes it look as though he’s sporting a second fat ass with three buttholes above his necktie, plus pistol-grip ears.
Well, shit. It is Halloween. Everybody’s gotta be somebody.
Nothing says Halloween like a plug-in plastic punkin.
Anybody else having trouble getting a boner (har de har har) for Halloween?
I mean, masked strangers in scary costumes pounding on your door at dark-thirty? They don’t save that shit for Oct. 31 anymore, yo. It’s been ages since anyone demanded my papers. Shit, these days I don’t even own a pipe.
Anyway, yesterday I finally started making my All Hallows’ Eve preparations. The weatherbeaten strings of lights that we leave up year round, as the late, great Jinx’s Place in Bibleburg did with its Christmas ornaments, have finally achieved critical bulb shortage. So I took them down and as we speak I’m cobbling together a minimalist arrangement that involves less pine sap (fingers) and ladder usage (lower back and knees).
It’s always a crapshoot here at the bottom of the cul-de-sac, trying to predict how heavy a lift Halloween is going to be. Some years we get throngs; others, twos and fews.
Tell you what, though. If it turns out we draw nothing but ICEholes this time around there will be a lot of candy left over. We won’t give the sonsabitches shit other than name, rank and serial number.
Remember what George Carlin had to say about “service.” Photo: Gage Skidmore/Flickr, used under Creative Commons License 2.0
Well, to absolutely no one’s surprise, Kimberly Gullet got tossed over the side of the USS Grifter, wearing nothing but a few hundredweight of anchor chain extorted from Tiffany & Co.
I guess when they told her she was going to be ambassador to Greece she thought they meant “ambassador to grease,” as in her palm.
That the Kimbo got the heave-ho for doing the same thing that all the males in that leaky tub are doing, some of them trying to grow more hands so they can slip them into even more wallet pockets, should likewise surprise no one. In that crowd it’s always going to be “Pimps up, hoes down.”
