Miss Mia Sopaipilla toasts her tummy on one of our new backyard walls.
Miss Mia Sopaipilla may find her daily backyard promenade going on hiatus for a while.
The weather wizards say a “potent cold front” is hooking up with a “fast-moving storm system” and we may be compelled to endure a short stretch of weather that is something other than 65° and sunny.
O, the agony. Still, if whatever we’re served comes with free water I’m all for it.
Expectations are that this first taste of winter weather will have a short shelf life here. Our readers to the north seem to be in for some heavy shoveling, however. Be judicious; give some thought to the lower back.
Speaking of shoveling, Mike Ha’pence just got tossed onto the growing pile of GOP Pestilential Candidates Who Are Not Orange and Under Indictment. Gosh, Mother, it makes a man’s eyes damp, for sure.
Living two blocks from singletrack has its advantages, as long as you watch your step.
Man, am I ever glad I’m not an influencer.
If I were, I’d feel obligated to opine on Hamas v. Israel; the Rt. Rev. Dr. Mike Johnson (R-Pecksniff), our latest Shaker of the Hose; psycho killers who use gunfire to drown out the voices in their heads; and various Trumps getting hauled, with eyes a-rolling at the sheer injustice of it all, into various courts of law.
But I ain’t. So I won’t.
Besides, my back hurts, because I somehow managed to banjax the bugger on Monday while shoveling out Miss Mia’s litter box and ever since have been lurching around the vicinity like an angry Ent with one root in a cast.
I haven’t even considered riding or running. But I have shuffled out for a few short hikes with my trusty staff and to date have not rendered dysfunctional any other aspects of the organism.
Also, I have not been compelled to endure bombardment, conversion, gunfire, or jurisprudence. Thus, winning, etc.
In other news, we’ve been watching a graphic-novel adaptation on Netflix, the limited series “Bodies,” and I can’t recommend it as a muscle relaxant. More of an irritant, really. But we’re six episodes into the sonofabitch and I want to find out how it ends so I can hate it properly.
Ordinarily I love almost any tale involving time travel. But at the moment all I can think of is going back to 1976 and telling the 22-year-old me not to work the top end of a hand truck while delivering a large refrigerator into an upstairs apartment.
“Dude,” I’d say, “just look at me. I’m all that remains of you. There are ways to get beer money that are easier on the lower back. For starters, weed is gonna be legal here in 2012. You heard it here first. Get busy.”
And lo a voice from heaven, saying, “This is my beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased. For now, anyway.”
Our long national nightmare is … only just beginning?
We finally have a Shaker of the Hose, a God-botherer, election denier, and Sniffer of the Orange Farts who has never held a significant leadership position in the U.S. House of Reprehensibles. Until now, that is.
“We need to get to work for the American people. We need to get a Speaker as soon as possible. So instead of doing that I’m going to force vote after vote on my doomed wank-fest of a candidacy until whatever remains of the Marginally Sane Wing of the Republican Party hires undisputed WWE Universal Champion Roman Reigns to yank my head off and place it in a glass jar to be displayed at the House Rostrum as a warning to other self-serving sociopathic bomb-throwing nihilists who couldn’t pass a bill if it were taped to a football but nonetheless might seek the gavel.”
I’m starting to think Thor couldn’t pick up this hammer.
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