Santos Claus ain’t comin’ to town no mo’. Not if the town is DeeCee, anyway.
The House lit him up and he’s nothing but a bad smell, with no salary, no pension, and 23 felony charges. Cast out, like a leper with herpes, running sores, and the heartbreak of psoriasis, into the cruel political wilderness.
In other words … he’ll probably be just fine. He’ll be hosting “Saturday Night Live.” Yeah, that’s the ticket. …
This is what the iPhone said yesterday’s sunrise looked like.
I’m not sure it was quite that garish, but it was an eye-popper, for sure.
Today showed a tad more restraint. There’s a hint of sprinkles in the weekend forecast, and I felt a brief preview this morning while snapping the pic.
A couple of my riding buddies are leaving for Tucson today to tackle El Tour on Saturday. I was invited to tag along but in my accelerating decrepitude I’m less excited than I once was about rolling around with a few thousand strangers on an unfamiliar course.
Back in the Day® I was a fiend for centuries, especially if it involved climbing. My favorite was the hilly Hardscrabble Century out of Florence, which climbed past Wetmore and McKenzie Junction to Weirdcliffe, swung over to Texas Creek, then segued into a fast roll along Highway 50 to Canon City before taking a back road into the finish at Florence.
The Santa Fe Century was another good one. South into the Ortiz Mountains and up Heartbreak Hill before jinking over to Highways 41 and 285 before the finale along Old Las Vegas Highway.
When I was a man instead of whatever it is I am now I could do both of ’em in under five hours. I might be able to drive them that fast now, if the old Subie kept it together and we didn’t count pee stops.
Speaking of time, it seems that the utterly shameless George Santos may have finally run out of same. The question now is whether the gutless House will boot him before he leaves under his own power.
I don’t think we’ve had a snowfall of any consequence this winter. Of course, now that I’ve said that, we’ll get hammered, probably tonight. — Your Humble Narrator, yesterday
Ho, ho, etc. I’m rarely right, but when I’m right, I’m right. Right?
I tumbled out of bed at stupid-thirty this morning to see if I needed to clear our black-diamond driveway for Herself, and glad I was of it, too, because I had to clear the sonofabitch twice.
The first go-round I broomed about an inch and a half of not-insubstantial snow off our slippery slope. When I turned around at the bottom to inspect my work I could see that the rematch had already been scheduled.
So after coffee and toast I had another go at it. Call it three inches of snow all told, which ain’t too shabby for these parched parts.
Once I was finished the lab fired off a message saying nobody needed to come to work until 10. Because of course they did.
I guess it takes a while to fire up the orbital space lasers Sandia uses to clear The Duck! City’s streets, what with all the batteries being earmarked for electric Hummers and whatnot.
Either that or they’re all tasked with vaporizing Chinese spy balloons.
Say, maybe that’s not snow. Maybe it’s vaporized Chinese spy balloon. Does that crap melt or just hang around being a pain in the ass, like George Santos?
Mad Blog Media 