Jaysis, the Foods Hole was nuts this morning.
I couldn’t tell whether the ravening hordes were preparing to:
(a) Mark the final Thanksgiving before fascism;
(b) Celebrate the impending arrival of fascism, or;
(c) Stock up on four years’ worth of grub that has gotten at least a casual look-see from Big Gummint before all the food inspectors get laid off/processed into Soylent Green@ brand “liverwurst.”
Here’s a tasty bit of watermelon for all the veterans in the audience — sunrise over the Sandias — from your friendly neighborhood pinko.
Let’s also give a thought to all those who aren’t around to see it on Veterans Day 2024. Some of them might be a little upset with us for surrendering to the fascists they fought.
It was a light turnout for Halloween at El Rancho Pendejo. We handed out just half of the candy I bought, and not even the two neighbor girls showed up.
Thursday was our first truly chilly fall morning — Herself and I had to break out the pants, long sleeves, gloves, and caps to go running — and I finally caved and switched the HVAC from “cool” to “heat.”
Adios, October; buenos dias, November.
Across town, the Not-So-Great Pumpkin was said to be trick-or-treating a smallish crowd of boneheads in a hangar near the Sunport. Let’s just dial that back to “tricking,” shall we? What treats he has are not for such as we.
In any event, I wouldn’t take a fat envelope of Benjamins from his short, greasy meathooks with a set of fireplace tongs and welder’s gloves. The Secret Service used to take a deep professional interest in counterfeiting, but I expect they’re too busy making sure his fat ass only has the one hole in it to frisk him for funny money.
And like I said, treats? Fuhgedaboudit. We’re waiting to see how many suckers have fallen for his tricks again.
That wasn’t a Glenn Miller big-band number they heard yesterday at the rally in Pennsylvania.
Those folks were dancing to another sort of tune altogether. The Black Rifle Boogie.
As has become traditional, before the echoes of the gunfire faded, the Keyboard Kommandos Rapid Response Team — “Last to Know, First to Blow, We Will Defend to the Death Our Right to Remain Misinformed” — instantly let fly in all directions at once.
I do not intend to do that here, beyond observing that when one has a country full of cuckoos and bang-bangs the two are liable to find each other. Frankly, given the prevailing political conditions, I’m astonished it took this long for them to come together and make music.
You’re listening to the Armed Propaganda Network. Don’t touch that dial!
I think we can all agree that some who have held the office do not deserve a Day, unless that day is in court, wherein a judge intones:
“Will the defendant please rise?”
Still, setting dreams aside for the moment, there once was a time when Presidents’ Day was less about presidents, good, bad, or indifferent, or even our first president, than it was about (wait for it …) bicycles.
According to a 2015 story by Yoni Appelbaum in The Atlantic, Americans once honored George Washington on Feb. 22 through feats of cycling.
When the date became a federal holiday in 1885, Appelbaum wrote, the nation “was deep in the grip of the bicycle craze.”
“In Boston, cyclists used the public holiday to hold bicycle races before cheering throngs. Local bike stores opened their doors to entice the race-day crowds, bringing them in off the snowy streets to preview the pleasures of spring. February 22 soon marked the start of the season, the day on which bicycle retailers held open houses to show off their latest models to eager crowds.”
—The Atlantic
As with quality in the nation’s highest office, this glorious state of velo-affairs could not last, of course. As the appeal of the humble two-wheeler began to wane in the early 1900s, the automobile rose up to take its place on the national stage, and the seasonal advertising campaigns shifted gears, from vehicles powered by living people to ones that ran on dead dinosaurs.
This will not stand, y’know? This aggression will not stand, man. So, today, turn a pedal for Liberty! Leave the dino-burner in the driveway! Take your bicycle for a red-white-and-blue spin!
And for the love of George Washington, don’t buy any golden high-tops.
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