No disrespect intended to the men and women of the U.S. Postal Service, but this absentee ballot is being hand-delivered.
We have voted the rascals out. You’re welcome.
Yesterday we voted ourselves out, for a quick five-mile march through the foothills.
Walking the Dog. Photo: Herself
It was a brisk morning, and we didn’t get out until noonish, because the sun doesn’t clear the Sandias at Rancho Pendejo until sometime after 9 and we’re rarely in a rush unless Herself has a long list of chores to be accomplished, which come to think of it is almost always.
The Merrell Moab 2 Mid Ventilator boots have broken in nicely after about 20 miles of light hoofing, and this morning I planted one of them in Adolf Twitler’s oversized fundament, metaphorically speaking.
It’s my second try at kicking his fat butt; let’s hope this time it helps do the job.
If the boots get ’er done, I’ll buy a second pair, because it seems that every time I find footwear that suits my dogs, that model is instantaneously discontinued and replaced with some Nazi bondage gear.
There’s always the stick, of course. But I don’t think the SS boyos will let me anywhere near Adolf if I’m waving Ol’ Hickory around and screeching about going all Andy Jackson on his ass.
