Remember the good old days, when there were commies under your bed?
Now it’s just cats. And they’re both under it and on top of it.
For purposes of security, his adjutant and aide-de-camp Miss Mia Sopaipilla favors a (mostly) undisclosed location.
I’ve wondered more than once whether they’re solar-powered. If so, their batteries should be topped off nicely.
OK, it’s been a long week.
Allergies, deadlines, insomnia, you name it.
And the news? Oy. Don’t get me started on the friggin’ news. It seems to have boiled down to @infinite_scream on Twitter, as interpreted by the band Disaster Area from “A Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.”
But I gotta admit, the way The New York Times arranged this news nugget on its homepage made me smile.
We used to have a saying in my biz: “Never fuck with anyone who buys ink by the barrel.” It may no longer apply, but we can always hope, amirite?
I didn’t get my Enemies of the People email newsletter this morning, which means I don’t know what we treacherous media types are supposed to be lying about today, so I’m just gonna have to wing it.
Word is that King Donald the Short-fingered will be holding court today in Florida. You’d think that at some point he might stop applying for the job and start doing it, but that’s what you get for thinking. Not a fan of thinking, the Orange House. Not a fan. Sad! Weak! Man of action! Get that thinking out of here!
Speaking of thinking, the techies at Wired magazine suggest that the paranoids among us — Who? Where? — consider using locked-down Chromebooks and cheapo burner phones that can be wiped and destroyed whenever the secret police decide they need to run their sticky little fingers through your data.
There are $30 Android smartphones out there? Seriously? Who knew? Not me, comrades. Herself just scored a new iPhone 7 and I think she had to pay a $30 cover charge just to get in the door.
Me, I muddle along with a 5-year-old iPhone 5, which I use mostly to receive communiques, dispatches and orders from Herself, take the occasional photo on bike rides, and transmit my activities and location to the State in case its minions wish to discuss pressing matters of national security with me in a windowless basement room at some undisclosed location.
Hmmmmm. Thirty-buck prepaid smartphone, y’say? Bought anonymously, with cash? Something else to think about. …
I been from Maine to Spokane and Austin to Boston.
I been up the creek and over the mountain.
I seen 10 acres of sheep fuckin’ in a 1-acre field.
But I ain’t never seen anything like today’s Beelzebozo press conference.
Twenty-four days. That’s how long tovarisch Mike Flynn lasted as national-security adviser.
In case you were wondering, yes, that’s a record.
Over at The Washington Post, national political corresponent James Hohmann has 10 unanswered questions you might find interesting.
At The New York Times, the Donks are demanding to be sung their favorite bedtime lullaby, “What Did the President Know (And When Did He Know It)?” This has all the gravitas and authority of a puppy yapping from his kennel while the humans are at work.
Trouble is, these mainstream-media types are all spewing the usual bullshit about what Beelzebozo can and can’t do now; the “future credibility” of his various mouthpieces, stooges, finks, flappers and handlers; and which useful idiot will replace the outgoing useful idiot. None of this addresses the central issue, which is that Ronald McDonald McTrump and the battalion of buffoons crowded into his stretch clown car are not Business As Usual and cannot be covered as such.
Perhaps most amusing is the pronouncement from Sen. Marco Rubio (R-Self-Interest) that a Senate Intelligence Committee inquiry into Russian tinkering with the election will go “wherever the truth leads us.” Little Marco doesn’t go places where he might trip over an inconvenient fact and bruise his ambition.
Mad Blog Media 