Category: Feckin’ eejits

Beam me up, Scotty

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
Got ourselves trapped again, eh, Thucydides old chap?

I see King Piggy the Sticky-fingered has covered himself with glory again. Doesn’t smell glorious, but then his snout is probably ruined from decades of horning fat rails of Adderall. His handlers should’ve maybe slipped a little more Thorazine into his Panda Express before letting him anywhere near a hot mic. Or his phone.

While Xi Jinping was making sly references to an Athenian historian’s musings on the Peloponnesian War, Piggy was squealing about how Sleepy Joe is to blame for — well, for everything, including the sinking of Atlantis, the crucifixion of Christ, and the 2008 real-estate bubble — and how “hot” the United States is now after he drove it into the ditch. “Hot” as in “on fire” and with nary a firefighter in sight.

The feeble old fool probably thinks “The Thucydides Trap” is a “Star Trek” episode, the one where Captain Kirk boinks the green gal.

Or maybe he thinks Thucydides is the antibiotic that saved him from one of the venereal diseases that constituted his Vietnam.

Shit, I’ll bet he can’t pronounce Thucydides, much less tell us anything about him. Probably never read any Barbara W. Tuchman, either. No Helen of Troy foldout.

Oh, eat me

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
Levi’s in the sky with dust clouds.

The wind is out of the southwest at 23 mph with gusts to twice that, the sky is the color of old sun-bleached denim, and the McShooter is back on the menu at McMedia.

That’ll give ’em something to chew on for a while, hah?

This latest assassination suspect’s chances of getting a fair trial anywhere other than the dark side of the moon evaporated between last night’s Magical Mystery Meat at the Hinckley Hilton and this morning’s Eggs McMurder at the drive-thru of your choice.

His Excremency King Piggy the Sticky-fingered reveals that there is a “manifesto,” because of course there is. A template is included in every Junior Assassin kit, and AK-A.I.™ can flesh out the deets for the bombastically challenged.

The Pestilence and his Merry Men were “likely” targets, opines the acting attorney general. As though his predecessor weren’t merely acting too, albeit on a dinner-theater level, if your dinner theater features servers with paper hats and that drive-thru mentioned earlier. Don’t hang by fishhooks through the nips while waiting for those Tony noms, kids.

I mean, like, shit, c’mon. What’s newsworthy is that someone isn’t trying to kill this guy every day of the week and twice on Sunday. If he were a dog with these behavioral issues and track record a no-kill animal-rescue shelter run by vegan Buddhist nuns would’ve dropped the pill on him when it became clear he just wasn’t gonna stop eating toddlers.

I won’t advocate for it, but if it happens, the first words out of my mouth are likely to be something along the lines of what the Schofield Kid said to William Munny. And what Will said to the Kid applies, too.

Another day, another shooter

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments
“Welcome to the hotel, California. … hey, wait, he’s got a gun!”

I was visiting The Associated Press website, checking out the security-cam video of our latest alleged would-be pestilential assassin dashing through the Washington Hilton towards the annual White House Correspondents’ Association Wank-Fest & Spooge-a-Thon, when the video snippet served me up an ad:

“Breeze through tax season … with Acrobat AI Assistant.”

Well. Fuck me running. Ain’t that just the way it is? Some things will never change.

Dude was definitely breezing through, with what was reported to be quite the toolkit — “The suspect was carrying knives, a shotgun and a handgun, officials said,” according to The New York Times — and quien sabe? Maybe tax season was on his mind. He may have simply wanted to consult with The Pestilence and his lesser maladies about how best to dodge his fair share of the ever-heavier burden the dozy orange sonofabitch is imposing upon us day in and day out.

In any event, as this flag-pinned plague shambles ever on and on, lying through its false teeth like any other dementia victim denying at the top of what remains of his lungs that he has yet again shit the bed, I am less and less inclined to take at face value anything I read with the qualifier “officials said” attached. I have stayed in many a Hilton over the years, occasionally with a loaded firearm, and more than once I have been sorely tempted to haul it out, if only to focus someone’s attention.

“When I booked this overpriced shithole I said I wanted a room as far away from the elevator and the ice machine as was humanly possible. Also, was the previous occupant grooming a chimpanzee in the shower? I’ve seen barber shops with less hair on the floor. And what’s with the goddamn Keurig instead of a proper coffeemaker? If you force me into going to a Starbucks at stupid-thirty for my morning fix, I swear to Dog. …”

Etc.

In any event, I awakened this morning — not in a Hilton, praise Dog — possessed of the certainty that this is not the last time we will read the words “shots fired” in connection with His Excremency King Piggy the Sticky-fingered. “Every nation has the government it deserves,” as the political philosopher Joseph de Maistre wrote in 1811.

A decade later, he wrote, “The sword of justice has no scabbard.”

‘We are not amused’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments
“Hey, I may be a Russian Blue, but I was born here, so lemme out!”

Nothing to see here, move along, move along. The ICEholes didn’t get Miss Mia Sopaipilla.

However, she was plucked from beneath the rumpled comforter in our bed, unceremoniously stuffed into a carrier, and whisked away via Scary Noisy Rattlebox to the vet yesterday for a vaccination, a mani-pedi, and a quick looksee because — like so many of us — Miss Mia is Of a Certain Age. In this case, 19, which means she’s pushing 90 in our years.

Ninety. Holy hell. I’m neither half as spry nor a quarter as cute as she is, and I’m barely 72. She’s got more hair, too, though our whiskers are about the same shade of white.

Mia’s no longer the champion jumper she once was, but then neither am I. Since breaking that second ankle I hop onto and off of things about as well as Mr. Hilltop in “Young Frankenstein.”

But she’s only on the one medication — methimazole, for an overactive thyroid — whereas I would be on an even half-dozen if I could get any of the fun ones without risking a longish stretch in the cage myself.

As we rolled into the parking lot I noticed one vehicle with a Trump sticker, and once inside I glanced around, trying to I.D. the owner. But I didn’t see anyone with an ailing turkey buzzard, desert warthog, or vampire bat, so I couldn’t in good conscience slip the doc a double sawski and recommend a candidate for euthanasia.

“Oh, sure, you’re all about a rabies vaccination for your three-legged pit bull but the rest of us should be ‘free’ to croak of the COVID Measles,” I mumbled to no one in particular.

Miss Mia just rolled her lovely green eyes, which is her way of saying: “Can we get on with it, please? You may win the war of words in here, but you’re gonna lose the fight in the parking lot afterwards, and I want to get home to finish my nap without a side trip to the ER and/or jail.”

Oh, mama …

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 22 Comments
It’s money that he loves.

They say that money 
Can’t buy love in this world 
But it’ll get you a half-pound of cocaine 
And a 16-year old girl 
And a great big long limousine 
On a hot September night 
Now that may not be love 
But it is all right. — Randy Newman, ‘It’s Money That I Love’

The Toddler-in-Chief wants to fire Jerome Powell again. Or still. Whatevs.

I guess a diet rich in Mickey D’s shitburgers, Adderall and defeat just doesn’t tighten the ol’ focus the way it once did.

Is this a pivot back to Making America Great Again? Like he did with grocery prices, gas prices, and the whole no-more-wars thing?

So. Much. Winning.

Take a nap, fuckface. We could all do with a little peace and quiet around here for a change.