A neighbor rang our doorbell a few minutes ago to advise us that the Cowboys for Trump were parading down Comanche, practically dancing in our laps.
Naturally, I grabbed the iPhone, hopped on a bike, and rolled out to collect a few memories.
I’m told that there were four riders on horseback leading the thing. I suppose the irony eludes them, as do many other things.
Including that they inspired my neighbor to drop everything and go vote — for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.
Anxiety dreams last night: I was walking the earth, like Caine in “Kung Fu,” hoofing it from place to place, meeting people, and getting in adventures.
And everywhere I went nobody was wearing a mask.
I was outraged, weaving through the shambling hordes of brain-dead booger-bags as though they were zombie cowboys bent on nativist misbehavior, until I realized that I was likewise unmasked, with my ugly mug hanging out in the wind.
No doubt any competent brain mechanic could make sense of this. I’m guessing it means that deep down I think we’re all in the shit together. Just another kernel panic in MeatWorld™.
Probably didn’t help that I saw a bunch of maskless wanderers on my bike ride yesterday. Or that the guv’nah gave New Mexicans another dressing-down for spreading El Buggo® like honey on a sopaipilla. We are not yet in the actual shit, she sez to us she sez, but we are certainly circling the bowl.
I’m doing my part, boss. Staying home except for grocery shopping and exercise. Washing my paws. And wearing my mask.
Whenever I’m awake, that is. Who doesn’t dream about not wearing a mask?
Hard to believe, innit? Wasn’t it just the other day that we were all sitting in front of our TVs as the election returns began unfolding like the wings of a giant vampire bat, or maybe Rodan the Flying Monster, and we began discussing our options for the next four years?
“Ireland?”
“No, too damp. I’d start drinking again for sure.”
“Canada?”
“Too nice. We wouldn’t fit in. I wouldn’t, anyway.”
“Argentina?”
“Hey, if we wanted to while away the hours around a bunch of old Nazis we could just move back to Bibleburg.”
Now, suddenly, here we are, two weeks away from our last chance to chase Adolf Twitler and his Brown Noses out of the White House before they finish gutting the place like crackheads stripping a squat for its copper wire.
I was running a couple errands yesterday and took another glance at our neighborhood polling place as I passed. The line was even longer than on Saturday, this time stretching all the way around two sides of the strip mall and out of my sight as I barreled down Montgomery in the usual thundering herd of honking land yachts.
I chose to interpret this as a good sign. No, not the land yachts. The line. Angry people ring other people up, write letters to the editor, and vote.
I choose to hope — yes, there’s that word again — that this time the right people are angry for the right reasons.
Yeah, yeah, I know. “Hope in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up faster.”
Still, what the hell else can you do? Unless you like living in a Tom Waits song. …
Rarely do the multinational corporations come in for praise here at Ye Olde Chuckle Hut.
They routinely claim to stand behind what they sell, but often can be found standing directly behind the customer, wearing a predatory expression and not much else. Just who exactly is the “end user” here?
That being said, here’s a tip of the Mad Dog sombrero to the support folks at Apple. They got right on the twitchy 2014 MacBook Pro I sent them, found a fault in addition to the one that I had diagnosed, repaired both, and shipped the sucker back with alacrity. Saturday delivery, before noon. Booyah, etc.
There was one small hitch in the gitalong, and in the end (har de har har) it proved to be no hitch at all.
When support notified me via text of the second fault and asked permission to fix it (for an additional three hundy and change) I was unable to approve the additional work online, either via Mac OS or iOS. Couldn’t get an active link on the “Git ’er done” page. God damn it all anyway, etc.
So I rang ’em up. Mind you, this was on Tuesday last, when the product barkers were pitching the brand-new iPhone 12 to the rubes. Hur-ry, hur-ry, hur-ry! I was expecting a long wait and a short reply that proposed my going and doing something to myself of which I would not approve.
Nope. My call was answered promptly, the support person kicked me to his supervisor, and she sez to me she sez, “Lemme handle that for you.” Including covering the additional cost.
Frankly, I was dumbfounded. The tab was not unreasonable, a whole lot less than buying a new MacBook Pro, and I was prepared to pay it. But all I had to spend beyond the initial repair estimate was a simple thank-you for the generosity.
“Yeah, you gotta lotta Apple product, been with us a long time,” she replied cheerily. Right on both counts, with everything from iPods to iPhones to iPads, MacBooks to Minis, PowerBooks to PowerMacs, going all the way back to 1990 and that first Mac SE.
Frankly, the only way the experience could’ve been improved is if they’d given me a loaner to drive while my MacBook was in the shop.
“Here, take the keys to this 16-inch 2.3GHz 8-core MacBook Pro with the 16GB of memory and the 1TB SSD, take ’er for a little spin while we work on the auld fella here.”
I guess they figured I didn’t need the bait. I’ve been on the hook for 30 years.
We have voted the rascals out. You’re welcome.
Yesterday we voted ourselves out, for a quick five-mile march through the foothills.
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.
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