Here’s a reminder for King Donald the Short-fingered that the First Amendment isn’t subject to his whims and tantrums.
Come and take it, bitch. You can deport me to County Clare, maybe fine me a finger, but I’ll just swim back and do it again, with the other hand.
Maybe it’s just that NOAA has been swept away by a tsunami of unitary-executive idiocy, but the weather reports around here lately are bordering on the comical.
Sure, that photo up top looks plenty ominous, but lots of stuff does first thing in the morning, especially since Jan. 20. By 10:30 the temps were in the mid-40s, and after checking the forecast I decided to drop my plans to go for a run and instead took my old road-racing bike out for what I said would be “a short ride.”
In terms of First World Problems this was an iffy proposition. Last time out on this rig I flatted the rear tire just a mile or so from El Rancho Pendejo, and trying to lever the sonofabitch loose of its rim to swap tubes was like trying to pry a Texas Republican’s lips from Beelzebozo’s diapered ass.
I did not want to be doing this in wind and rain. Or snow. But tomorrow’s weather looked worse, so off I went.
And whaddaya know? It was glorious. Bit of a wind, but going out and up it was mostly behind me. And when I turned around to head home I was able to duck in and out of various suburban neighborhoods and mostly keep it out of my face. Stayed out for 90 minutes of hills and even felt a bit overdressed.
Also, I didn’t flat. So, bonus.
When I got home, my iPhone told me it was raining. Huh. News to me. And fake news at that.
Herself, coming back from a run, said her iPhone was telling her the same thing.
I made us some lunch, then she hit the gym, and I rolled out to the bakery and the grocery. Still not raining.
By 4 p.m., it was still sunny enough for a haircut, so Herself broke out the clippers and had at me. Near the end of that process, which is like shaving a particularly lumpy and unlovely blue-eyed coconut, we thought we heard some raindrops on the skylight.
Nope.
And now my iPhone promises it will be raining in 26 minutes.
Huh. I guess it’s true what they say. You can’t believe everything you read. Especially if it has to do with stormy weather, in The Duck! City or the Oval Office.
P.T. Barnum was right.
• Postscript: And naturally, as of 7:24 p.m., it’s snowing.
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.
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.
From The Associated Press (yeah, those bums):
Stocks tumbled in morning trading on Wall Street Tuesday as a trade war between the U.S. and its key trading partners escalated, wiping out all the gains for the S&P 500 since Election Day.
“Only I can fix it,” the other bum sez. He’s fixin’ it, a’ight. Tariffic.
I just searched my 2025 training log for “rain” and came up empty. Just like our rain gauge.
Until this morning.
As we began puttering around the Compound, getting our Sunday started, Herself said she thought she heard sprinkles tippy-tapping the skylights. But I said naw, warn’t nothin’ in the forecast.
But suddenly there it was, on the walkway. Not much, but it’s all good, amirite?
As news goes it certainly beats a hummer I saw in The New York Times this morning about some bloated sack of shit whose claim to fame — beyond boinking Madge Toilet Grout, that is — was asking President Volodymyr Zelensky of Ukraine why he wasn’t wearing a suit to his ambush by — pardon, “meeting with” — that other, better-known, bloated sack of shit, who also gets too much press.
I got asked a similar question once, by a supervisor, during a performance review. It was majorly annoying, as I had been busting my hump for that two-bit cage-liner, which couldn’t keep its city and copy desks staffed, and they should’ve been delighted that I showed up for work at all, much less wearing a button-down shirt and tie.
Shit, they were lucky I didn’t show up butt-nekkid, knee-walking, commode-hugging drunk. But I was, after all, a professional. I was always fully clothed.
I fled that rag as soon as I could find another job. Any old asshole can wear a tie, and plenty of them do. Especially on TV.
Mad Blog Media 