Well, you can’t say we weren’t warned. On this date in 1949, actually. And again in 2023. And again, and again, and again. …
Commence Two Minutes Hate
Tag: Adolf Twitler
The days are just fucked
After the events of the past few days — an assassination attempt that instantly brought out the worst of nearly everyone with a social-media account; the roundfiling of what Esquire’s Charlie Pierce calls “The Pool Shed Papers” case; and the elevation of the faux hillbilly shapeshifter J.D. Vance to the No. 2 spot on the 2024 Repuglican ticket, which is starting to look like a mortal lock come November — is it any wonder that I turn for enlightenment to my favorite philosophers, Calvin and Hobbes?
Mourning in America
“Joe, the Supremes just said you can stand in the middle of 5th Avenue and shoot somebody and can’t nobody do a god-damned thing about it. What are we waiting for?”
“No, they said he could do that. We try that shit and unless you learned how to make a shiv out of a toothbrush at Harvard Law we’ll be getting hourly prostate exams in the Leavenworth shower room. Until we ‘hang ourselves’ in our cells.”
“OK, OK, so maybe that’s getting too far out over our skis, even for the Supremes. Maybe we just Gitmo his fat ass?”
“You keeping up with our W-L record in the courts? I’m not at all sure we could beat a speeding ticket if we were taking a stroked-out Pope to an ER in Boston.”
“I feel ya, Boss. What about a plane crash? He’s still using that old Boeing piece of shit, yeah? Those things go down more often than Lauren Boebert. Accidents happen, amirite?”
“Only works on Democrats and rock stars.”
“Deranged loner?”
“All registered Republicans. We checked in 2016, remember?”
“Oh, yeah, right. OK, how’bout we get Stormy to sign a sworn affidavit saying he liked to make the ’shroom angry by licking Mickey D’s ketchup off a 10-year-old kid or boinking a golden retriever, has a library of videos that makes a Scranton fuck-book shop look like a Christian Science reading room. Send the FBI over to ‘check it out,’ they get into a ‘gunfight’ with his SS detail, he goes down in the crossfire. Shit, I bet at least half his SS detail wants to shoot him three times before breakfast.”
“Too many moving parts; too much wobble. But the dog thing. … How about this? We invite him over for lunch and I introduce him to my dog, Commander.”
“Jesus, Joe. We’re talking a dog bite here? Fuck that. Go big or go home.”
“Going home is starting to look awfully good. I could use a nap.”
Up the old Wazoo
Anyone watch the Debate to Determine the First Loser last night?
Of course you didn’t. Because you already know that life, like the GOP pestilential campaign, is nasty, brutish, and short.
I haven’t read any of the coverage and don’t intend to because see previous graf.
In other news, Chris Christie finally conceded that he’s not enough of an asshole to out-trump You Know Who, but just enough of one to hot-mic’ his rivals for the roses in what has been a one-horse’s-ass race since the starter’s pistol fired. All the other entrants are basically carousel ponies, going up and down, and around in circles, and winding up right back where they started, a reminder that money can’t buy everything.
Buy the ticket, take the ride, as Hunter S. Thompson has taught us. Better yet, get someone else to buy your ticket. That way you don’t wind up a few hundred million in the red and sitting atop a suitcase on the curb in front of what used to be your home.
Elsewhere, one of You Know Who’s judges decided he didn’t want to hear “Mein Kampf” as filtered through a damp XXXL set of gold-lamé Depends in YKW’s civil-fraud trial and thus we are spared “a closing argument” that would have made the Delta House charter hearing in “Animal House” sound like “Inherit the Wind.”
Finally, here in The Duck! City the weather is fixing to take a turn for the worse, so yesterday I decided to slip out for a short ride on the Tramway bike path.
While motoring around on errands I had noticed that while the roads were still covered in red salt and sand, the bike path was clean as a whistle, so I opted for a quick spin to the County Line BBQ and back, just to keep the muscle memory from toppling over into dementia.
Today is looking more like a run type of situation, as the wizards are calling for plummeting temps, gusty winds, and plenty of the old suckee-suckee. Cycling was cold enough yesterday; no point in adding to whatever wind chill Itztlacoliuhqui has queued up. Coals to Newcastle, that is.
Happily, I’m not running for anything. Not even Christie’s people are dim enough to chuck good money down my little pasatiempo.
Impunity
It’s good to know that the president can order SEAL Team 6 to swing by El Rancho Pendejo to pop a few caps in my ass and nobody can prosecute him over it, not even for littering.
I’d sort of suspected that this was the case. But it’s nice to have it confirmed.
Fuck. Me. Running. This D. John Shyster mouthpiece sounds like a real piece of work. Wikipedia says that in addition to the B.A. in theology from Oxford, the M.A. in philosophy from Notre Dame, and the J.D. from Harvard, our man has a B.S. in electrical engineering from Duke.
I guess this means that as Grand Inquisitor in the Second Coming he’ll be in charge of affixing the electrodes to everyone’s testicles. He’s getting a crash course in how to handle nuts right now.
The Benedictine monks from Saint Louis Abbey who provided his secondary-school education must be so proud. Laus Tibi Domine, y’all.
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