After the events of the past few days — an assassination attempt that instantly brought out the worst of nearly everyone with a social-media account; the roundfiling of what Esquire’s Charlie Pierce calls “The Pool Shed Papers” case; and the elevation of the faux hillbilly shapeshifter J.D. Vance to the No. 2 spot on the 2024 Repuglican ticket, which is starting to look like a mortal lock come November — is it any wonder that I turn for enlightenment to my favorite philosophers, Calvin and Hobbes?
No trombones here: This is a solo for black rifle.
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!
We didn’t watch the “debate” last night, so I don’t have any personal observations to add to this morning’s raving, keening, caterwauling, hair-pulling, wailing, finger-pointing, and general post-shitting-the-bed cacophony.
So consider this an “open thread.” Got any thoughts? Lay ’em on us in comments. Our operators are standing by.
Here’s a pic of a cute lil’ kitty-cat to distract you from the other one.
Call me cynical (“You’re cynical!”), but I don’t think that other cat, the bedraggled, raggedy-ass orange tom that keeps slinking around the joint, yowling, spraying on the national furniture, and clawing the Stars & Stripes curtains into ribbons, is in danger of being put to sleep anytime soon.
Nossiree, he’s got himself a solid majority of black-robed laps in which to curl up while he awaits delivery of The Big Fish, the one that got away on Jan. 6, 2021.
Fuck me running.
Meanwhile, the playacting continues. Government shutdown: Will they or won’t they? Dueling VIP visits to The Border, that deadly, open-air, razor-wired waiting room where all the brown foreigners go to apply for the jobs nobody else wants. The Senate leadership following the House down the rabbit hole to Wonderland. Gaza. Ukraine. “Dynamic pricing” at Wendy’s.
And now, this: Is a president a king?
I thought we settled that question back in 1776. But as I recall, that king required a few years of rather aggressive convincing before he conceded the point.
Come bedtime whatever is Me climbs into its skull, pulls up the ladder and bolts the trapdoor, then settles in for a long night of home movies.
Don’t expect any reviews. We’re not talking not Oscar contenders here. Art-house stuff, shot using iPhones or Super 8 with Byzantine plots and weird camera angles. Definitely not suitable for anyone under the age of 69 without a history of substance abuse, terminal confusion, and attitude poisoning. Popcorn is not served.
Then come morning whatever is Me shuts off the VCR, glances at the dashboard to see if all the idiot lights are green, and then pops the hatch, drops the ladder, and starts pulling the body back on like some tattered and patched Iron Man Halloween costume badly in need of a laundering.
“Jaysis, are we trying to put this shit on backwards? Toes, report! We still got 10 of you guys? OK, there’s No. 10, hung up on a snag somewhere around the right calf. Someone trim that nail! And what about that left knee? More snap, crackle and pop than a bowl of breakfast cereal. Hands, you still at about 70 percent? Sixty? Well, it’ll have to do. Time to open the eyes, we’re redlined on the pressure gauge down in Holding Tank One. Windshield wipers, stat! No washer fluid? Buckle up, we’re gonna have to do this on instruments. … Sound the alarm! We’re going in!”
It gets harder every morning. Well, no, not that. But everything else. Especially in February. All the lubricants are low and/or congealed, the various belts loose and skipping on their sprockets. More bad noise than a haunted house. There is a certain uncertainty in the landing gear, down where the rubber meets the road.
