Category: Feckin’ eejits

Here’s your cup, there’s the door. …

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
Make vinegaroons great again.

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.”

Garbage in, garbage out

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 24 Comments
“Goddamnit, he wants to ‘drive’ again, which means he just sits there, turning the wheel back and forth, making ‘vroom-vroom’ noises and honking the fucking horn. Later he’ll want us to run over a few homeless dudes panhandling in the median, maybe pick up a few hookers down on Central. Jesus. We’re gonna be out here all day.”

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.

Freshen that up for you, hon’?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 28 Comments
Mr. Coffee passed away this morning. He left two survivors, one of whom got a cup of marginally drinkable java.

Did Monday come early?

The coffeemaker croaked before I could get my morning fix, compelling me to brew java The Cowboy Way (via pour-over into a Thermos). And our Sunday bike ride looks to be rained out.

Ah, well. They still sell slave-made coffeemakers here in the Land of the Free. And rain is good for the vegetation.

Speaking of vegetables, with any luck at all the rain will continue through tomorrow’s Two Minutes Hate, so Ginger Hitler’s Red Caps can get their bodies washed along with their brains, if any. No amount of rain could wash the dumb off they ass, though.

Lunacy

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments
If you must do something outrageous around the full moon, try howling at the sonofabitch. Always works for me.

I’d love to be able to blame the full moon for this, or maybe Friday the 13th, but it happened on Thursday night.

The scariest part may be that this apparently was not a single incident, but rather three separate shootings.

What. The. Fuck.

And lo siento mucho, but candlelight vigils with Modelo backs are not the answer, any more than thoughts and prayers.

Put down the fucking guns, please. And thank you.

Why fi?

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 44 Comments
“Well, the good news is we have wifi. The bad news is,
it cost me $150 to update the blog.”

Jesus H., etc.

I know this isn’t exactly the wilderness, but still, damn.

Anyone who’d pay $3 an hour for wifi at Hyde Memorial State Park probably shouldn’t be allowed to leave home with his wallet.

Get your face out of the phone and take a hike, f’fucksake. Give Yogi and Boo-Boo a shot at your pic-a-nic basket.