Jesus H. Christ. Couldn’t this asshole stick to painting pictures of himself in the bathtub?
And the less said about CNN, the better. Those dildos started toeing the company line before the echoes of the second plane hitting the South Tower faded and it’s been nothing but train wrecks ever since.
Jesus, Teh Stupid is coming so fast and furious lately I can’t possibly keep track of it all.
The racist dummy in Nevada got shoved off the front pages by the racist dummy in California, Oklahoma is about one half-assed dope deal away from killing its death-row inmates with a hammer, and we can’t afford to rebuild our own roads because we pissed away too much money blowing everyone else’s up.
The Nevada dummy’s goons are grilling motorists at checkpoints, Louisiana wants to jail panhandlers and hitchhikers, and Ralph Nader has crawled out from under his rock. (If he sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of racist dummies, botched executions and potholes.)
Thank God for deadlines. This is what I came up with based on a casual glance around between paying chores. Imagine what I could’ve laid on you if I were free-range today.
Oh, Lord, the air must be thin up there in Dumbass Mountain, Nevada, where the peckerwood forest grows.
It’s not bad enough that we must endure the comedy stylings of Cletus Awreetus-Awrightus, Grand Wazoo* of the Holy Sheet Brotherhood & Posse Comatose.
No, we must hear from his daughter, too.
The wingnut didn’t fall too far from the tree there, now, did it?
I’m old enough to remember when we used to call people who stole things “criminals,” not “patriots,” and those who defended the practice by force of arms, “dead criminals,” or at the very least, “jailbirds.”
The times, she do change.
* And yes, I did manage to find a way to work in a cheap Frank Zappa gag there. Thanks for noticing.
“Man plans, God laughs,” goes the Yiddish proverb.
So, naturally, as I was contemplating the intricacies, logistics and amusements of a bicycle tour, Management reminded me that spring is only a word, an arbitrary date on a manmade calendar.
Yesterday I was motoring around Fremont and Custer counties with the windows down, scoping out various back roads between Florence and Weirdcliffe with a Colorado Atlas & Gazetteer in the passenger seat while tugging frequently from a water bottle. Today I awakened to a few inches of heavy, wet snow on the deck, with more on the way.
No complaints here, mind you. Water from on high is water I don’t have to buy from Colorado Springs Utilities. And it sure beats being on fire.
So it looks to be a fine day for hanging around indoors, viewing with alarm. For instance, I notice that the Supremes are trying to make it less onerous for the 1 percent to run the country the way they see fit. And a Colorado judge is intent on making it harder for the 99 percent to catch them at it.
I’m starting to think Roberts, Scalia, Thomas, Kennedy and Alito are deserving of life terms after all. Not on the high court, mind you, but in Leavenworth, making little rocks out of big ones for their crimes against the people.
Ah, jaysis. One of those forecasts. The devil must be eating beans again, because the wind is up, and it stinks.
After spending the morning working on various velo-projects and watching the trees prostrate themselves like monks before the altar I decided to leave all the bikes in the garage, no matter what class of tires they were wearing, and go for a 90-minute hike in Palmer Park.
Some dipshit lit the place up the other day, briefly, and with Beelzebub’s butt-trumpet blasting hell-farts hither and yon suddenly the Asplundh folks are in there turning foliage into sawdust. It’s either a fire-mitigation effort or a thinly disguised attempt to deny cover to those horny Bibleburgers who are either too free-spirited for a hotel or too cheap to rent a room, the park’s shadier nooks long having served as havens for spirited and unsanctioned rounds of Hide the Bishop.
There was none of that going on today — not that I saw, anyway — though I did spot what could have been a few post-coital cigarette butts along the way. There was, however, a veritable parade of mountain bikers disinclined to yield trail, unleashed dogs dropping deuces, and oblivious pedestrians.
One day these three factions will come together in some blind corner as yet uncleared by Asplundh and there will be a fine old donnybrook. I will sell tickets and use the proceeds to buy a house in some place where neither the wind nor the populace blows.
