“I’ve done far worse than kill you. I’ve hurt you. And I wish to go on hurting you.”
To boldly go … where? To the bank for a cashier’s check, it seems. Hold the phasers, drop the shields, piss on the dilithium crystals and call in the Tribbles.
Beam me up, Scotty — there’s no intelligent life down here.
On the first day of July, the month named for Julius Caesar, the Senate bent to its dictator’s will and approved his giant, ugly-ass, abortion of a bill.
Susan Collins of Maine, Rand Paul of Kentucky, and Thom Tillis of North Carolina— who will not seek re-election after Orange Julius Caesar threatened to find someone to primary him — were the only Repugs to vote nay. All others assumed that fabled position.
Prince MAGAbelly had to cast the deciding vote, and now this huge, loathsome turd must float back to the House for resolution of the changes made in its version. A vote there could come as early as tomorrow.
Might there be a few hurdles involved? Hear ye, hear ye, from Ye Oulde New Yorke Times!
The changes senators made to a version of the bill the House passed in May have raised the cost of the package while also teeing up deeper cuts that would lead to more Americans losing health insurance coverage. That alienated both poles of the party — fiscal hawks concerned about soaring deficits and mainstream Republicans wary of shredding the social safety net — complicating its path in the Senate and threatening its prospects in the House.
It would add at least $3.3 trillion to the already-bulging national debt over a decade, the nonpartisan Congressional Budget Office said on Sunday — a cost that far exceeds the $2.4 trillion price of the version passed in the House. And it would result in $1.1 trillion in health care cuts, nearly $1 trillion of them to Medicaid, causing 11.8 million more Americans to become uninsured by 2034, the same office found.
Hurdles, you say? It is the hee, and also haw. The majority in the House makes the Senate look … well, senatorial by comparison. The Senate is up to its saggy tits in senile old hoors, to be sure, but the House is the political equivalent of a Bizarro World Alice’s Restaurant, where you can get anything you want, including Alice, her husband, Ray, Fasha the dog, the entire complement of the Group W bench, and maybe Officer Obie too, all rolling around in a half-ton of garbage, if that’s what blows your skirt up.
So poor people will starve, get sick, and die, rich people will get richer and write letters to their senators complaining about how they have to step over the stiffs on their way to the squash court, and Elon Spunk will start a new political party in a frantic attempt to … save us from ourselves? Nope. To put himself back in the news cycle as anything other than a bad joke, despised even by the people who bought his cars.
Better debug that exploding Starship stat, bruh. I hear OJC wants to claw back your subsidies and deport you to Mars, and for sure he’ll make you drive your own paddy wagon.
The roving Eye of Mordor has fallen upon Sandia National Labs. And where the Eye goes, the Sword shall follow.
The deets remain elusive. But the gist of it is that Sandia plans “to reduce its workforce” by as many as 510 employees as part of a “restructuring effort aimed at cost reduction,” which may include a “voluntary separation program” and a hiring freeze.
This is PR-speak for “budget cuts, buyouts, and layoffs.”
One to three percent of the staff is not a huge bloodletting, unless you happen to be one of the 510 and have a couple kids in university, a parent in a nursing home, and the usual credit-card debt and home/auto/college loans outstanding.
Nevertheless, you may well ask, how is it that the Military-Industrial Complex is reduced to counting its pennies in these dark days?
Well, it seems as though the Military portion of the Complex is in tip-top shape. No shortage of comfy chairs, caviar, and Champagne in the Boom-Boom Room.
But the Industrial aspect? Well … it suffers from elevated levels of solar, wind, and geothermal technologies that don’t kill foreigners, DEI, or The Woke, and thus are not covered by MAGA Cross-Red Shield. So those have to come off, stat. And with a scimitar, not a scalpel.
Anesthesia, you ask? Ho, ho. Suck it up, Buttercup. Drugs are for Closers. And you posie-sniffing Poindexters wonder why you weren’t invited to the King’s Birthday Parade. You should’ve grabbed a chair in the Boom-Boom Room before the music stopped.
Take the 20-mile ride around the foothills. Please. Sure, you do enough of them, they add up to a nice pile of miles at week’s end. But still, damn.
Also, the not running. I never have been and never will be a “runner.” But as Richard Pryor has taught us, running is a useful skill to have at one’s disposal in case of emergency.
But you got to stay in shape and shit, ’cause you never can tell when in real life you will have to … run! That’s right, run. Goddamnit, run. Why get killed when you can … run! That’s right, a lot of people get a ass-whipping, and you could run. You’ll be in the hospital, your ego will heal a lot faster than a broken jaw. ’Cause you’ll still be in the hospital talking about “Shit, I should have run.” Run! That’s right! If somebody pull a knife on you, and you can’t pull out nothing but a hand with some skin on it, your intelligence ought to tell you to … run!
So I’m slowly easing back into running — nothing outlandish, just a 5K, one per week — just in case anybody gets the idea that I’d be a whole lot quieter in a hospital with my piehole wired shut.
The bosque (coyote not included).
And I’m trying to break my oh-so-convenient 20-miles-in-the-foothills habit. Today I logged a 33-miler, descending to the bosque for a looksee — some dipshit(s) have been setting fires down there — and then climbing back to El Rancho Pendejo.
This three-hour ride weaves together several of the local off-street bike paths, which is a pleasant change of pace from, say, Tramway, which always makes me feel like a cottontail on a rifle range. That itch between the shoulder blades, etc.
And at the bosque I was rewarded with my first coyote sighting of 2025. Right troublesome little bastards they can be, but I still like seeing them. I’ll take an honest coyote over the devious dawgs of DeeCee any old day.
It’s only our bedroom chimney. You go to war with the Barad-dûr you have, not the Barad-dûr you might want or wish to have at a later time.
OK, lemme see if I’ve got this right. …
Pope Naked I, the Unclothed Emperor, Avatar of Peace and Very Stable Genius, elbows into a Middle Eastern pissing contest without checking with Congress, an elite cadre of drunkards, turncoats, lickspittles, ring-kissers, and Keyboard Kommandos at his side.
Next he unilaterally declares a cease-fire — a short while later the belligerents mumble, “Yeah, right, cease-fire, sure. …” — and get right back to murdering each other.
Finally the Warrior Pope finds a convenient camera to holler into, barking that the belligerents “don’t know what the fuck they’re doing,” when it seems pretty clear to even the most casual observer that when it comes to killing each other, these people are at the top of their class.
Does that about cover it? I think I’m all caught up now.
Mad Blog Media 