I’d be delighted to report that his performance in the final presidential “debate” will sink him, but fat turds float, and I expect this one will continue to bob around in the national crapper for the better part of quite some time.
Frankly, it seems unflushable. I’d say sell the house, but who’d want to buy with that thing spoiling every showing? Can we just wall it off with bricks the way Montresor did Fortunato? Pretend it’s not there? Do our business outside if need be?
Shit.
Anyone who was surprised that ICP refused to say he’d take his beating like a man has not been paying attention. He’s not a man. He’s not even a small-d democrat. He’s a two-bit totalitarian. And those dudes don’t go down without a vigorous flushing, and maybe a bit of elbow grease. OK, a lot of elbow grease.
Sadly, rather than get busy with the plunger, however distasteful a chore that may be, some of our fellow Americans insist on splashing around in there with him.
Insane Clown Pussy may be circling the bowl, but his stink will be with us for a while yet. Somebody light a match.
Goddamnit, I guess we’re gonna have to watch tonight’s “town hall debate” between The Hilldebeast and whichever Ronald McDonald McTrump decides to show up, if any.
I can’t say I’m happy about it. Herself and I had agreed before the first matchup had even ended that we would watch no others.
But when I see Insane Clown Pussy furiously digging himself ever deeper into a hole, my natural inclination is to stand on the lip and watch. Maybe pee a little. OK, a lot. Call it “trickle-down journalism.”
Charlie Pierce says this big orange chicken has been a long time coming to roost, and I believe him, having once worked in a newsroom full of young, apparently intelligent people who were all hellbent on voting for St. Ronnie of Hollywood.
Will he lay a golden egg on stage, or will the end product be something entirely different, yet all too familiar? Don’t touch that dial.
ALBUQUERQUE (MDM) — There must be something to all that vortex talk about Sedona. Something was definitely sucking there on Saturday. Mostly the drive in, down Oak Creek Canyon, on what should have been a beautiful fall afternoon.
I suppose if you have to be trapped in a traffic jam there are worse places for it. I had just left one of them, Las Vegas (“Gateway to Bankruptcy and Repossession”), and was glad of it, too.
Still, you expect all manner of inconvenience in Sin City. Sedona bills itself as “The Most Beautiful Place On Earth In So Many Ways,” but this linear parking lot was not one of them.
Right behind me were a couple little yos in a red Kia getting their smoke on, their rap music polluting the air nearly as badly as the conga line of cars. (Pro tip: A red Kia is not “gangsta.”)
Up front, a sign proclaimed “Speed Reduced Ahead.” Not possible, I thought, glancing at my speedometer, which was flirting with zero. This made driving through Taos on Memorial Weekend look like barreling down I-25 between Raton and Wagon Mound at 3 in the morning. At least nobody was hollering or honking.
I hadn’t been to Sedona in years, and I wouldn’t see much of the new-and-improved version this trip. After inching through town to my hotel, I slouched over to the inevitable Whole Paycheck, bought a mess of juice, salami, cheese and crackers, and slouched back. Thusly fortified, I reclined on a chaise lounge at poolside and set about enjoying the comparative peace and quiet of the bubbling hot tub after the clangor and din of the Luxor-Mandalay Bay Dante Alighieri Memorial Circles of Hell (Two Through Four Inclusive).
Rub-a-dub in the hot tub! Or right next to it, anyway (yes, I eventually got in).
Just about then a couple wanders in and of course they are in a mood to chat, having just come from the annual Sedona Winefest. He was a copper miner from Globe-Miami, and she was a phys-ed teacher and coach … who just happened to have cycled with a trailer from Canada to Mexico and was a member of the Adventure Cycling Association.
(“Cue “It’s a Small World After All.” Everybody sing!)
Anyway, they told me that on any given weekend Sedona was pretty much as I had already seen it, and so bright and early the next morning I arose, loaded the Subaru and got the hell out of Dodge. Vortex. Whatever. I took the back door through the hamlet of Oak Creek, which allowed me to use fifth gear and my inside voice.
I made it back to Duke City and El Rancho Pendejo in time for a light dinner and a short walk with Herself and Mister Boo. Turkish and Mia bestirred themselves, albeit briefly. (“Oh, you were gone? We hadn’t noticed.”) We enjoyed a beautiful sunset and an early bedtime.
All this peace and quiet will be shattered by tonight’s debate and the subsequent spinning of same, of course. Some vortexes suck more than others.
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