Category: What the Actual Fuck?

‘Just bump him, bruh’

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 22 Comments
The ghost bike installed by the Duke City Wheelmen in remembrance of Scott Dwight Habermehl.

“Just bump him, bruh.”

Sounds better than “Gonna hit him hella fast,” doesn’t it?

But the difference was no difference at all to cyclist Scott Dwight Habermehl, who last May was sent flying over the passenger side of a vehicle with three giggling kids in it — ages 15, 13, and 11 — and left fatally injured on the side of the road.

He was 63. Father of two. A Sandia National Labs engineer who was just cycling to work, as he had done for years.

Two of the three kids said to have been in the vehicle that hit him have been arrested, charged with an open count of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, leaving the scene of an accident involving great bodily harm or death, and unlawful possession of a handgun, according to the Albuquerque Journal. The eldest remains at large.

We’ve all been in this neighborhood. I’ve been right-hooked into a parked car; tumbled over the hood of an SUV whose driver passed me only to start executing a leisurely U-turn; narrowly escaped a homicidal trucker on a wide highway shoulder; had a full bottle of beer thrown at me from a speeding vehicle; been threatened with a gun.

The joke among longtime cyclists with a dark streak of humor is that if you want to murder someone without suffering any consequences, wait until your target gets on a bicycle and then hit him with your car.

But it doesn’t seem all that funny when you consider that two of these three suspects were charged — within days of the crash that killed Habermehl — in connection with what the Journal called “a weekslong crime spree that included a smash-and-grab burglary, shootings and auto theft.”

And yet nothing came of it.

The case against the 13-year-old was dismissed in August 2024 “when prosecutors failed to meet court requirements,” the Journal added. It’s not clear what happened to the charges against the 11-year-old.

Maybe prosecutors will “meet court requirements” in this instance, since (a) Albuquerque Mayor Tim Keller and Gov. Michelle Lujan Grisham have weighed in, and (2) we’re not talking about property crime now — this time, a man was sentenced to death by three children for the crime of riding his bicycle to work.

• Video: The Albuquerque Police Department provided this clip from a video said to have been uploaded to the Internets by those involved. APD says this triggered an anonymous tip, a homicide investigation, and what we can only hope will be justice for Scott Dwight Habermehl. Thank Dog for the stupidity of many of our 21st-century criminals. Back in the Day® we knew better than to rat ourselves out.

• Addendum: The third suspect is in custody.

Saints preserve us

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 17 Comments

It being St. Me Day, and with a nod to The New York Times for its story on how the DOGEbags have been taking a shillelagh to the National Nuclear Security Administration — which is said to have lost “a huge cadre of scientists, engineers, safety experts, project officers, accountants and lawyers — all in the midst of its most ambitious endeavors in a generation” — we present The Bothy Band performing, “Old Hag You Have Killed Me.”

Zero’s Day

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 9 Comments
Understatement of the year. But it’s only March 5.

Congress is like a drunk dad watching as his sugar-crazed rug monkey tips over a display of Easter treats at an understaffed Walmart, wondering whether he should deal harshly with the little shit, blame it on the ex, or just hit the door running.

And no, we did not watch last night’s episode of “The Worst Wing.” I use the word “episode” in its medical sense, “an occurrence of a usually recurrent pathological abnormal condition.”

No, instead we watched the new Robert De Niro vehicle, “Zero Day,” in which the smart Black lady is president. (In this instance, Art does not imitate Life.)

But at least I didn’t already know what was going to happen in “Zero Day.”

You didn’t have to be Nostradamus to call the play on Zero’s Day in DeeCee.

Zero was going to rave like a poorly raised toddler. The Repugs were going to find it all oh-so-cute. And the Donks were going to be as bold, decisive and effective as a Walmart shopper, watching the kid step out of his overflowing diaper in the produce section as dad idly thumbs his phone, and thinking, “Somebody really should do something.”

Yes, somebody should. We’re still waiting.

Guess what. Didn’t stop. And this was in 1954.

I’m not picking on Rep. Melanie Stansbury here. I’ve met her. I like her. But god damn, etc.

You don’t derail the Dingaling Bros-Barnum & Beelzebozo Circus train by standing on the tracks holding a tiny sign, like Wile E. Coyote. What you get there is run the fuck over. Take it from a guy who knows what it feels like to get hit by a locomotive.

The Rolling Blunder Revue

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 2 Comments
“Roll him back to makeup, someone screwed up the spray tan. Also, more lipstick. Maybe that’ll help.”

Here it is Feb. 1 in the Year of Our Lard 2025. The last 11 days of January were chock-full of chuckles, and I anticipate even more of same going forward.

Yesterday I got out for a leisurely 90-minute ride in pleasant weather, which helped. The 45-minute run is fine, as far as it goes, which is not very. But I need at least twice that to slap some of the rabies out of the Voices in my head, get them all singing more or less on key and in harmony rather than screeching at random like banshees with the piles. They resist gentle persuasion, and believe me, you don’t want to get bitten.

Meanwhile, the Dingaling Bros-Barnum & Beelzebozo Circus Rolling Blunder Revue thunders along. The Junior Stalinists are erasing Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data because DEI, whipping tariffs on all and sundry (adios, avocados), and releasing water from storage in California because … who the fuck knows why? Not the water wizards, that’s for sure. (A tip of the ol’ swim cap to Kevin Drum for the intel).

I could go on — and on, and on, and on — but won’t. Remember, it”s a marathon, not a sprint. Maybe an ultramarathon. Barefoot, uphill, into the wind, on a rocky trail bordered by cacti and speckled with bear scat and broken glass. Let’s pace ourselves.