Tag: Adolf Twitler

The Reich stuff

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments
“We’ll be right back after this message from Trump 2024.”

In our second installment of “Hey, He Can’t Do That, Can He?” we have Ed Kilgore making a case for … maybe. Not without help, anyway.

Writing for New York magazine’s Intelligencer, Kilgore concedes that “nobody knows for sure” how long Adolf Twitler will keep contesting the 2020 election results.

But Kilgore breaks down the process by which this GOP-enabled defiance may devolve “from sour grapes to dangerous delusion.”

The good news, writes Kilgore, is that “the odds of Trump being able to pursue a 2020 election challenge into 2021, with his party at the federal and state levels unanimously behind him, are very limited.”

“There’s almost certainly not enough evidence of electoral irregularities to overturn Biden’s victories within individual states, and not enough raw political and judicial power for Republicans to defy federal and state laws and pull off an electoral coup early next year,” he adds.

Plus, if Il Douche wants to have another grab at the brass swastika in 2024, as has been widely discussed, well … how can we miss him if he won’t go away?

Kilgore concludes: “In other words, he can’t play Napoleon returning from Elba in triumph until he accepts his prior exile. The real deadline for Trump’s surrender to reality is the moment leaders of his party throw up their hands and cry: Enough!”

“Ich bin ein Loser!” Achtung, baby.

He’s bearing up quite nicely, thanks

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 20 Comments
“If you count the legal votes, I easily win.
Hey, Johnny, got any more Roxxies?”

We’re all having a little hee, and also some haw, over Adolf Twitler delivering a major address to the voices in his head at the White House last night.

I caught only a couple minutes of the performance, which falls short of the ne plus ultra — gin-soaked Tricky Dick wandering the halls at midnight, screeching at the paintings.

Still, I think it’s fair to observe that the current “president” seemed not unlike a geriatric bear that wandered into Johnny Depp’s house, gobbled most of his stash, had three strokes in quick succession, then picked up a Shure SM58 and started freestyling.

That being said, we are all about the public service here at Ye Olde Chuckle Hut, and I’d like to pass on this friendly reminder from Ranger Smith, who notes that even if Sleepy Joe pulls off the V here, Yogi will still be rifling the pic-a-nic baskets at Jellystone Park until Jan. 20, 2021.

We now return you to the clusterfuck, which is already in progress.

The Four Horses’ Asses of the Apocalypse

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 11 Comments
It’s all downhill from here, fellas.

A neighbor rang our doorbell a few minutes ago to advise us that the Cowboys for Trump were parading down Comanche, practically dancing in our laps.

Naturally, I grabbed the iPhone, hopped on a bike, and rolled out to collect a few memories.

I’m told that there were four riders on horseback leading the thing. I suppose the irony eludes them, as do many other things.

Including that they inspired my neighbor to drop everything and go vote — for Joe Biden and Kamala Harris.

Two weeks

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 22 Comments
Flush twice, it’s a long way to Leavenworth.

Hard to believe, innit? Wasn’t it just the other day that we were all sitting in front of our TVs as the election returns began unfolding like the wings of a giant vampire bat, or maybe Rodan the Flying Monster, and we began discussing our options for the next four years?

“Ireland?”

“No, too damp. I’d start drinking again for sure.”

“Canada?”

“Too nice. We wouldn’t fit in. I wouldn’t, anyway.”

“Argentina?”

“Hey, if we wanted to while away the hours around a bunch of old Nazis we could just move back to Bibleburg.”

Now, suddenly, here we are, two weeks away from our last chance to chase Adolf Twitler and his Brown Noses out of the White House before they finish gutting the place like crackheads stripping a squat for its copper wire.

I was running a couple errands yesterday and took another glance at our neighborhood polling place as I passed. The line was even longer than on Saturday, this time stretching all the way around two sides of the strip mall and out of my sight as I barreled down Montgomery in the usual thundering herd of honking land yachts.

I chose to interpret this as a good sign. No, not the land yachts. The line. Angry people ring other people up, write letters to the editor, and vote.

I choose to hope — yes, there’s that word again — that this time the right people are angry for the right reasons.

Yeah, yeah, I know. “Hope in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up faster.”

Still, what the hell else can you do? Unless you like living in a Tom Waits song. …

Out out out!

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 31 Comments
No disrespect intended to the men and women of the U.S. Postal Service, but this absentee ballot is being hand-delivered.

We have voted the rascals out. You’re welcome.

Yesterday we voted ourselves out, for a quick five-mile march through the foothills.

Walking the Dog. Photo: Herself

It was a brisk morning, and we didn’t get out until noonish, because the sun doesn’t clear the Sandias at Rancho Pendejo until sometime after 9 and we’re rarely in a rush unless Herself has a long list of chores to be accomplished, which come to think of it is almost always.

The Merrell Moab 2 Mid Ventilator boots have broken in nicely after about 20 miles of light hoofing, and this morning I planted one of them in Adolf Twitler’s oversized fundament, metaphorically speaking.

It’s my second try at kicking his fat butt; let’s hope this time it helps do the job.

If the boots get ’er done, I’ll buy a second pair, because it seems that every time I find footwear that suits my dogs, that model is instantaneously discontinued and replaced with some Nazi bondage gear.

There’s always the stick, of course. But I don’t think the SS boyos will let me anywhere near Adolf if I’m waving Ol’ Hickory around and screeching about going all Andy Jackson on his ass.