I’d trot out the “If Hillary/Obama disclosed classified information to the Russians. …” trope, but why bother?
I’m starting to think that if King Donald the Short-fingered were to be videotaped having sex with a Russian wolfhound atop an American flag, in the Rose Garden, at high noon on Memorial Day, Lyin’ Ryan and The Turtle would shrug their shoulders, mumble, “It’s just the president, screwing the pooch again,” and get back to the business of stripping the Republic for salable parts. Never you mind that the dog is on top.
Maybe when Cheeto Benito is headed home after his first big international trip we can turn out the lights, pretend we’re not home.
As the weather warms up, picking a time to walk Mister Boo becomes something of a crapshoot (haw).
The auld fella doesn’t like the heat, so mornings would be ideal, if he didn’t enjoy sleeping in after a medium-heavy breakfast. Evenings would be second best, but with only the one headlight he doesn’t see the road any too well.
Yesterday we walked him pretty much right at sunset, and it being nearly 80 (!) outside he was something of a sluggard on the way up the road to the foothills, but on the way back he let ‘er rip, running a full block back to El Rancho Pendejo.
Maybe he was inspired by the view? Looks like the boonies, but it’s all of two blocks from the house.
As Samuel Johnson once said of Thomas Sheridan, “Such an excess of stupidity, sir, is not in Nature.”
So, by now, even the dumbest, sheet-wearing, Stars-and-Bars, piss-on-the-fire-and-call-in-the-dawgs peckerwood has to know that the cheese has done slid right off King Donald the Short-fingered’s cracker, right?
Even a John Birch bedwetter whose head has been up his ass since Earl Warren fronted for the Supremes can see that the Tangerine Tyrant is long overdue for a stylish canvas blazer with wraparound arms and a corner table at the Rubber Room for himself and all those voices in his head, yeah?
Seriously. Anyone who’s spent any time around Alzheimer’s patients, drug addicts or the criminally insane have seen this behavior before. There is something dreadfully wrong with him, and yet nobody capable of frog-marching him to the screw factory for rethreading has shown any interest in stepping up and performing the necessary laying on of hands.
The hacks running today’s Grand Old Party seem perfectly content to let a lunatic hurl inflammatory and actionable idiocy from the White House like a monkey flinging his own dung in a primate house, as long as he continues to have a pulse and one hand not too busy with masturbation to sign whatever they set before him.
He also makes a lively distraction from their efforts to dismantle the Republic and sell off its parts.
“Mama, what’s ‘health insurance?'”
“Never mind, honey. Just watch the funny orange man.”
We drove out of that to ride the Paseo del Bosque and whaddaya know? I didn’t even need knickers, much less the rain jacket.
Yesterday I laid down my hammer and sickle and took time out for a refreshing spin with Friend of the Blog™ Pat O’Brien, who with his lovely bride Sandy popped round to see what’s what in the Duke City.
I didn’t document this major tourism event with photography, because frankly I didn’t think we’d get ‘er done. It was raining when Pat arrived in his manly Toyota Tacoma to pick me up for the drive to the Paseo del Bosque’s Alameda trailhead, and the forecast was grim indeed.
But my iPhone photo above depicts the worst of it. Down by the Rio the weather was warm and windy, and we did the full lollipop, riding south, then curving in a northeasterly direction to Rio Bravo before returning to the bosque trail for a (mostly) tailwind-supported return.
We were both aboard Somas, naturally. Pat rode his Saga whilst I piloted the old Double Cross, freshly equipped with SKS fenders just in case. This, and the fact that we both carried rain jackets, is almost certainly why the clouds didn’t open up during the ride.
Back at El Rancho Pendejo I learned that a deluge had struck DeeCee, washing away the stain on democracy that was Jim Comey. King Donald the Short-fingered, alas, remains perched atop his golden throne, his personal roll of Constitution toilet paper close at hand. Here’s hoping it’s a harder rain gonna fall on his crooked highway before much longer.
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