Here it is Feb. 1 in the Year of Our Lard 2025. The last 11 days of January were chock-full of chuckles, and I anticipate even more of same going forward.

Yesterday I got out for a leisurely 90-minute ride in pleasant weather, which helped. The 45-minute run is fine, as far as it goes, which is not very. But I need at least twice that to slap some of the rabies out of the Voices in my head, get them all singing more or less on key and in harmony rather than screeching at random like banshees with the piles. They resist gentle persuasion, and believe me, you don’t want to get bitten.

Meanwhile, the Dingaling Bros-Barnum & Beelzebozo Circus Rolling Blunder Revue thunders along. The Junior Stalinists are erasing Centers for Disease Control and Prevention data because DEI, whipping tariffs on all and sundry (adios, avocados), and releasing water from storage in California because … who the fuck knows why? Not the water wizards, that’s for sure. (A tip of the ol’ swim cap to Kevin Drum for the intel).

I could go on — and on, and on, and on — but won’t. Remember, it”s a marathon, not a sprint. Maybe an ultramarathon. Barefoot, uphill, into the wind, on a rocky trail bordered by cacti and speckled with bear scat and broken glass. Let’s pace ourselves.