Stuck for a Valentine’s Day gift?
How about snatching up these DOGEbags dry-humping the Statue of Liberty, stuffing them into a Starship, and deporting them to Mars?
No, not the Mars Elon covets. The Mars H.G. Wells envisioned.
See how these bright boys and girls like “intellects vast and cool and unsympathetic” drawing plans against them.
I know I’d love it.
The weather took a seasonal turn yesterday. The gods knew I’d be dropping the Subie at Reincarnation downtown around 8:30, and they didn’t want me to be too comfortable as I cycled home on the Soma Double Cross.
It wasn’t what I’d call wintry. There was a pretty brisk wind, but hey, this is New Mexico. Wind ain’t blowing when you wake up, you may have died during the night. Anyway, it was pushing me along the North Diversion Channel Trail. So, winning, etc.
I was properly attired, with a light jacket over a long-sleeved jersey and an ancient Hind base layer, bibs and tights, wool socks, full-fingered gloves, and a tuque under my helmet. Kept it all on, too, as the wind became a little less friendly on the Osuna-Bear Canyon trail.
When you start your day with a 65-mph sprint down I-40 to University and then cycle from Mountain and 2nd, up Odelia-Indian School, and along the NDCT from Indian School to Osuna, you see the homeless folks getting their mornings on, if you know where to look.
One dude was camping beyond rough, rolled up like a burrito in a red blanket on a concrete slab off on the north side of I-40. I might not have seen him were it not for that blanket. If he had a shopping cart, a bicycle, or even a bindle, it was pretty well concealed.
As I pedaled up the NDCT a small group was shaking itself awake just off the trail below Montgomery. One guy had a bike; we exchanged waves.
Later, after I was home and warm and full of lunch, Reincarnation rang me up to say my 20-year-old rust-bucket would require a deeper dip into the wallet than I had anticipated, imperiling a considerable slice of what I had until that moment considered disposable income.
I felt sorry for myself, briefly, until I remembered that at least I’d have the Subie to sleep in if everything went south on me all at once. There’s even a locking rack up top for the Double Cross.
The Guardian reports that a monkey is behind a crippling “imbalance in the power system” in Sri Lanka.
Yeah, we’ve got one of those too. Condolences, and better luck in your next elections.
“What time does the Super Bowl start?” Herself asked.
“Beats me,” I replied.
Can you tell we’re not fans? Of the Chiefs, the Eagles, or football in general?
I used to fake an interest, same way I faked an interest in editing newspaper copy for a dozen years. My people followed the various ball sports, and occasionally rented a motel room for The Big Game, because that way someone else would have to tidy up afterward.
But the Big Game was usually more about acting the fool than it was about football. Just ask the motel housekeepers who had to do the tidying up.
These days I don’t even have to pretend I give a shit. I just decide which bike I want to ride and hope all the fans are already glued to the pregame show(s) before I sally forth.
Today it’s my No. 2 Steelman Eurocross. I rode No. 1 the past few days and hate to show favoritism. But I gotta have some knobbies in case I need to flee the mean streets for the trails. Dog only knows the state of the drivers on Game Day, running low on bean dip and strong drink, weaving off at 20 mph over the limit to the grocery store.
You think we’re shipping the wrong people to Guantanamo?
I’m old enough to remember a time when, if some civilian loudmouth waltzed through your front door barking orders, you could kick him in the plums, give him the old heave and also the ho, and get back to whatever it was you were doing before all the bad noise started.
Yet somehow, in the Year of Our Lard 2025, we’ve allowed this porcelain pissant from South Africa to start rearranging the national furniture, to say nothing of the org chart, without so much as a “Just who the hell elected you to anything, anyway, Fisheyes?”
Raise a ruckus and you get frog-marched out the door, either to the breadline or maybe a gated beachfront community that doesn’t feature in Beelzebozo’s plans for the tourist trade. Meanwhile, our media watchdogs just keep licking their own nuts; chasing random brain farts down countless odiferous ratholes; and “fact-checking” the arsonists who are burning down the government faster and more thoroughly than the Brits did during the War of 1812.
But be of good cheer: There’s plenty of bark and bite to be had in the latest edition of Radio Free Dogpatch!
• Technical notes: RFD favors the Ethos mic from Earthworks Audio; Audio-Technica ATH-M50X headphones; Zoom H5 Handy Recorder; Rogue Amoeba’s Audio Hijack; Apple’s GarageBand, and Auphonic for a wash and brushup. The Captain from “Cool Hand Luke” and Yosemite “The Little Drummer Boy” Sam communicate to us from YouTube. The boot to the bollocks and subsequent heave-ho hail from Freesound. The French taunter you may recall from “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” Air travel to Gitmo, a newspaper’s printing press running, and soldiers on the march courtesy of Freesound. “Twisted Clowns” honk at us from Zapsplat. Charles P. Pierce does his barking from the Esquire Politics kennel. And last, but far from least, that’s Sam Cooke working the “Chain Gang.” All the other gang violence is the fault of Your Humble Narrator.
Mad Blog Media 