Tag: His Excremency

A king-size turd

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
O, for the days when kings didn’t have shit all over them.

What a perfect lead-in for next weekend’s No Kings rallies.

The Marquis of Mar-a-Lago is definitely not a king, by the standards of “Monty Python and the Holy Grail.” Shit all over him. Plenty of it his own.

James Fallows has a few thoughts about how the Marquis chose to note the passing of former FBI director Robert Mueller, who died Friday at 81. Quoth His Excremency:

Good, I’m glad that he is dead.

Ouf! Dude sure knows how to set the tone, que no?

Well, I’m glad we got that out of the way, not least because I have a penchant for short and not-so-sweet obits myself, some of them with a callback to the old National Lampoon headline — “Franco Dies, Goes to Hell” — and I’m very much looking forward to writing his.

Fallows gives a shout-out to the upcoming No Kings rallies and suggests that we call/write the Orange House, plus our senators and representatives, to deliver “messages of outrage.” Great idea, and I’m all for it.

But that old Yippie-wannabe streak of mine, as always, yearns to take the response just a wee bit further. …

What about sending His Excremency a roll of industrial-grade toilet paper, the kind of 220-grit sandpaper you find in roadside rest areas, hot-sheet motels, and jails, with a note suggesting that he use it to wipe his all-too-public asshole, the one just below his nose?

Or perhaps a single long pubic hair taped to a postcard, with instructions to use it as dental floss after shitting through his face like this? Which he wouldn’t, of course. You know His Excremency never flosses; just tosses his dentures to a minion, who dunks them in the thundermug and then shoehorns them back in through that wrinkled, puckered orifice.

No, not that one. We’re talking the attic here, not the basement.

In the meantime, we can attend our local No Kings events and wait for that glorious, long-overdue day when we can all breathe a sigh of relief and say:

Good, I’m glad that he is dead.

Call me an optimist, but I like to think that this non-king will rest under a blanket of shit for eternity. His should be the only tombstone in the boneyard with a toilet-paper dispenser.

Pestilence Day

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 3 Comments
One of these things is not like the other.

“Not dead yet, I suppose?” I remarked to Herself as I set about my morning chores.

“Nope,” she replied.

Humph. And they call this a national holiday?

I haven’t checked the news yet, being only a cup and a half of joe into my day. Has His Excremency ordered up a platoon of virgins to take turns massaging his tiny wand? Good luck finding any in the immediate vicinity. Nothing but worn-out old pros with scabby knees and callused lips in that shabby, shameless army. (And yes, I’m looking at you, Lindsey Graham.) The USS Nimitz has fewer years on the job and has seen less action, too.

Speaking of elderly vessels, has Hair Füror ordered a strike group to menace the emperor penguins at Antarctica? Probably in league with the terrorist sheep of the Falkland Islands. Show ’em what a real emperor looks like! Bonus: Antarctica has coal! Clean, beautiful coal!

Mustn’t forget the terrorists right here at home, of course. The proles actually expect to be able to vote during the midterms! Ho ho. That’s easily managed. While Congress is out of town this week, just change all the locks at the Capitol, issue the appropriate executive orders — “Thank you for your service, kapow, kapow, etc.” — and achtung! 535 fewer speedbumps on the autobahn to 1933. If anyone turns up at the polls, well … ICE already has all the funding it needs. Danke, suckers.

Nevertheless I remain hopeful. Herself and I have birthdays coming up and if our good buddy Jeebus loves us we may yet be treated to the sight of a regiment of flag-pinned toadies doing it hand to hand over who will be The One to “don” (har de har har) the departed cult leader’s Depends of Domination as he rides that golden escalator down to his cardboard condo at the Lake of Fire.

A word to the unwise: Just because those drawers are yellow doesn’t mean they’re golden. Pulling them on with rubber gloves and burning eyes will be a Feat of Strength that will make Arthur pulling the sword from the stone look like Stephen Miller pulling his pud in a rental van parked across from an elementary-school playground at recess, unaware of the bomb attached to his gas tank.

Because no matter how this shit shakes out, nobody wants that dude around to sing his songs. He knows where all the bodies are buried. More than a few of them are probably in his basement freezer.

Awaiting enlightenment

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 10 Comments
Strictly ornamental.

Author George Saunders is much in the news of late, chatting up the press in preparation for going on tour to promote his latest book, “Virgil,” due out later this month.

Speaking with The Guardian, Saunders said he was still trying to decide how to speak about politics when he hits the road. Preaching to the converted feels “a little too good, like it’s too much sugar,” he said, adding that while his nature is to seek peace, “that’s dangerous right now because I don’t want to be a peacemaker for this regime.”

I’m not a celebrated author, prepping for a book tour, or a Tibetan Buddhist. I blog irregularly and without distinction, the only tours I take are by Subaru, and the only thing I’m promoting is my own mental health. My devotion to Zen is sporadic at best.

But I sure dig where Saunders is coming from when he says The Work is the thing.

The one thing I’m doubling down on is: just keep making fictive worlds. Improve the quality of your thought, improve the quality of your compassion, by that sacramental exercise, then whatever you have to do you’ll be better equipped.

It reminds me of the Zen proverb, “Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.” Also, and too, of the Epistle of James, which goes, “For as the body without the spirit is dead, so faith without works is dead also.”

And I was pleasantly surprised to see Saunders prescribe a spoonful of sugar to help his medicine go down: “Also start weightlifting, build a machine-gun turret. …”

Sounds like the right sort of work for an old blogger short on faith as the reign of His Excremency Donald the Dozy barrels along unhindered. We’re running out of water to carry in the Southwest, and we don’t burn wood. But you never know when a buffed-up bod’ and a machine-gun turret are liable to come in handy.

Join the party!

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 6 Comments
No kings since 1776!

Every emperor deserves a rebellion, and this is ours — a chance to show His Excremency and the dung beetles greedily eyeing his six that some of us won’t eat what he’s serving. Let’s preempt his must-see TV for a few hours. It’ll still be about him, of course — but he won’t like it, not one little bit.

You can find your local gathering at the No Kings website. Let’s get ready to grumble!