What would Frank Zappa play as Agent Orange assembles his Cabinet of tools, fools and ghouls? Why, “I’m the Slime,” of course.
Tag: Agent Orange
The sky is crying
This is what we have today. Heaven must be weeping over the stumbles of the Chosen One, who spake loudly and profanely of his desire to be fruitful and multiply with ladies of the female persuasion to whom he was not bound by holy matrimony.
Some of the lesser rats are leaping over the side of this leaky, gold-plated yacht, but it’s too early to tell whether they’ll swim to safety or sink like furry little stones.
The fattest rodents remain on deck, however, with dampened pinkies and flared nostrils testing the wind. Is that water down there or just more of the shit we’re already in, only deeper?
Paul “Lyin'” Ryan is stuck in a Shylockian crisis of his own making (“O, my daughter! O, my ducats!”). He wants it bad in 2020, but does he look principled or premeditated if he rescinds his support now, despite all the other crimes against the Republic committed by Agent Orange?
It’s enough to give a man the blues, for sure.
Welcome Matt
One of my brothers-in-law recently took a job in Florida — the east coast, naturally — and looks like the welcome wagon has finally rolled up.
No worries. As Hurricane Matthew came a-calling he evacuated westward to a town just outside Chez Mouse, and with any luck at all, he’s just getting his windows washed for free. My bro’-in-law, not Mickey. The sis-in-law is still up north, wrapping up their affairs there.
Here in the Duke City the mornings and evenings have grown brisk, but the days themselves remain stellar. I went for a nice hike in the foothills yesterday so I could get a little October sunshine on my head. And today I plan a mountain-bike ride while everyone else in town is milling around at the balloon festival.
If I want any gasbag action, I’ll check the news when I get home. Whoops, there it is.
Well, bust my balloons
Herself and I cycled over to the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta yesterday to see what it was all about.
Mostly it was all about RVs. Seriously. We didn’t see a single, solitary balloon. But we did see about eleventy-bazillion dollars’ worth of houses on the hoof, taking up all the ordinarily vacant acreage for miles around.
Turns out that we arrived between shows. There’s a whole lot of not much going on between 11 a.m. and 5 p.m. I saw more action during the last day of Interbike, f’chrissakes.
Still, it was a nice ride, exactly 23 miles; the bike paths there and back were not bumper to bumper; and our recreational vehicles took up less parking space once we got them home.
Later we learned via The New York Times that the increasingly deranged Agent Orange apparently pays less income tax than a freelance scribbler. So, of course, do GE, Boeing, Verizon, Bank of America, etc., et al., and so on and so forth.
Lady Liberty must be feeling a bit like Lili Von Schtupp, with all these cowboys giving her the business. So … tired.
Balloons and other gasbags
It’s the first day of October, and the Albuquerque International Balloon Fiesta is under way.
Looks like a beautiful day for flying, if only to get above the weed pollen (snurk, gnunk, hoccccccck, ptui).
Elsewhere, the giant orange gasbag that has been hovering above our national politics continues to shower those below with a particularly acidic rain. I don’t think they have a toilet up there. I do think USADA should dope-test this silly tangerine turdblossom. I used to talk a lot of shit at 3 a.m, too, and I know exactly what I was on.
Seriously, I expect Agent Orange to kick off the next debate by telling The Hilldebeast, “Say, you don’t sweat much for a fat chick.”
Meanwhile, cycling defeated technology yesterday. I went for a short, delightful ‘cross-bike ride on the neighborhood trails, and while I wore my Shimano Sport Cam, thinking to amuse all y’all with a short POV video, Herself and I agreed that the result would not be toppling Danny MacAskill as the King of YouTube anytime soon. Just another face on the cutting-room floor.
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