And just like that, as word came that California’s electors
had put Sleepy Joe over the top, the sun came out.
Posts Tagged ‘2020 presidential election’
College, boy
December 14, 2020Toast
November 9, 2020
The only things missing are the man-bun and the ironic facial hair.
No, not him. I’m talking about the famous Hipster Avocado Toast a la Señor Dog of Albuquerque.
The other day I bought a six-pack of avocados to chop into a rough salsa for a batch of chipotle-honey chicken tacos. This proved to be about four too many, so there you have it. The bread is a robust whole-wheat number from the Toastmaster Bread Box recipe booklet.
It seems a good day to crouch behind the parapets, nibbling tasty bits and dodging dispatches from the Bananas Republic. This just in: GOP sticks fingers in ears and goes “LA LA LA LA LA LA LA,” how the Donks will fuck this up, everybody hates everybody else, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.
Nature abhors a vacuum, and so does the 24/7 news cycle. Happily, we still have a couple avocados left.
The Universe is speaking to us again
November 8, 2020
All in all it’s just another post on my wall.
It only took four years.
Jabba the Twitt
November 8, 2020
Meanwhile, at the Twitt House. …
“Forgive me, Your Extreme Loathsomeness, but there’s a moving van out front, Vader has signed on with Cotton 2024, and the Emperor isn’t returning our calls.”
From The Failing New York Times
November 7, 2020
ByeDon wins. Time for a Cold 45!
Meanwhile, at a golf course somewhere in Virginia, a 3-iron spirals into a water hazard.
• Extra-Credit Bonus Snark: Most Jersey reporter ever tells Trump supporter to “Fuck off.”
Some Saturday silliness
November 7, 2020
The sun starts to peek over the Sandias.
OK, it’s been a little dark lately, and it may get darker still.
So today, while we wait for the poor sods tasked with deciphering the wishes of the electorate to finish their thankless chore, here are a few items that made Herself and I giggle like schoolchildren this morning.
• Say what? Sign-language interpreter translates heckler shouting “Fuck you!” at Hawaii mayor.
• Talk about your pinkos: Trump backers tricked into joining “Gay Communists for Socialism” on Facebook.
• Avoid the void: The void is full. Please stop screaming into it.
Yummy
November 5, 2020
“Libs pwned. What’s for lunch?”
Miss Mia Sopaipilla blew a hairball into her breakfast this morning.
I consider this an imperfect metaphor for American politics, if only because I didn’t get splashed. It was a perfect shot, straight into her own bowl full of Taste of the Wild Rocky Mountain Feline Formula, which runs a buck-forty a can.
A real American cat would’ve gotten at least half of it on me and Herself, blamed the Deep State/antifa/libtards for the hairball, taken ownership of and pride in the hairball, demanded that the bowl not be cleaned, and then returned to chowing down, hairball and all.
Democracy. It’s what’s for breakfast.
I had too much to dream last night
November 4, 2020
I’m not ready to face the light.
I didn’t like the look of the numbers, so I called it a night shortly before nine.
Herself had already toddled off to read something that wasn’t election results. I did likewise, clicked off the bedside lamp, and went to sleep.
But not for long.
Around 1:40 my eyes popped open and I could feel the boss shifting about.
“You sleeping?” I sez to her I sez.
“Off and on,” she sez to me she sez.
“Do we have to check?” I axed.
“Yes,” she replied.
So we did.
How we were able to get back to sleep after that I have no idea. Yet we did.
’Wave bye-bye, you filthy meat-things
November 2, 2020
Herb-E doesn’t understand the democratic process.
Come to think of it, neither do many of the filthy meat-things.
As long as we’re on the topic of cartoons, and with a jaundiced eye toward lightening our mood going into Election Day, here’s the latest “Shop Talk” strip from Bicycle Retailer and Industry News.
For this one I retitled the strip “E-Shop Talk,” and cast Herb-E in the starring role.
Herb-E is the shop’s e-mechanic, in all senses of the word. He’s a bot who works on other bots. And he is decidedly not our friend.
He and all the other e-devices the industry is pushing on us are biding their time, plotting the Rise of the Machines, turning the occasional burglar into lubricants for practice, and awaiting the glorious day when they will no longer require the services of “the filthy meat-things.”
Herb-E is cousin to ev-Rider (below), a short-lived and equally homicidal e-project from 2016, intended to continue “the natural evolution” of battery-powered bicycling by selling robot cyclists to the sedentary.
As the ev-Rider rep told the Mud Stud and Dude, “When only robots ride bikes, well, your customers can focus on what they really care about … kitten videos on Facebook!”
Speaking of the Stud and his bro, while one or the other takes an occasional issue off, the November 2020 cartoon above marks the first time that neither of them appeared in the strip since it launched in January 1992.
When bicycles are bots, only bots will have bicycles.
On pestilential debates
October 23, 2020
The Junkman cometh.
A tip of the Mad Dog fedora to Marc Maron, who reminded me of this quote.
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