Something else I can do better than King Donald the Short-fingered:
Get a Wall® built.
What’s all this fuss about a Wall®?
I had a Wall® done yesterday. Easy peasy. Spanish-speakers were involved, though they declined to pay for my border-security project. And it wasn’t a Wall® from scratch, but rather enhancements to an existing Wall®.
But still, as you see, here we are. And nobody had to work for free, take on a second job, or go to a food bank over it.
Nero didn’t get it either and cashed out the hard way.
OK, let’s see if I’ve got this right:
“A major scientific report issued by 13 federal agencies on Friday presents the starkest warnings to date of the consequences of climate change for the United States, predicting that if significant steps are not taken to rein in global warming, the damage will knock as much as 10 percent off the size of the American economy by century’s end.”
In response, the courtiers attending His Most Pissant Majesty, King Donald the Short-fingered, Terror of Twitter, are focused like the proverbial laser beam on whether trans folk may serve in the Empire’s armed forces.
Got it. Makes perfect sense. See, if they’re not camping in camo’ down by The Wall*, or using the wrong latrines in Afghanistan, they’ll be available to fight fire and flood elsewhere, p’raps in more fashionable neighborhoods, in order that the gentry may be both protected and entertained.
* Wall not pictured. Or even built.
His Lardship on the throne.
Donald the Short-fingered thinks he is the Lizard King (“I can do anything!).
There was a time when “erotic politician” Jim Morrison got in the deep doo-doo for waving his dick around on stage, but that was only rock ’n’ roll, and we liked it. Just part of the act, folks; all in good fun.
This guy actually wants to fuck us. But I don’t see the cops coming anytime soon.
I think the Alien is just about ready to pop out of Steve Bannon’s gut there at lower left. Either that or it’s some sort of handgun-flask combo.
Boy, the swamp, she’s draining now, hey?
So many geniuses. The best geniuses. I don’t know about you, but I’m getting pretty sick of all this winning.
Have you noticed that cats rarely require chiropractic adjustment? Me too.
Bang, pow, zoom: To the moon, O’Grady!
OK, so it wasn’t quite that dramatic. But it wasn’t no honeymoon, neither.
What it was: I test-drove a new chiropractor today and after some exertion on his part (and some unseemly screeching on mine) I am feeling a bit more like myself. A barely upright lesser primate, in other words.
In professional parlance, I am “a mess,” which is no surprise to anyone.
But mess though I may be, at least I have not been caught lying to the press and to Congress. Now that’s a mess.
Whether anyone has the spine to treat this ailment, of course, is another matter entirely.
At the Wet House, President Arthur Curry vowed to sign the 2032 Paris climate accord, calling the U.S. exit in 2020 “water over the bridge.”
Lakota: “Take courage, the earth is all that lasts.”
King Donald the Short-fingered: “Hold my Coke and watch this.”
Jesus wept. I don’t want every single post on the blog to be about this pig-ignorant son of a bitch, but Lord, does he ever make it difficult to blog about anything else.
Which is probably exactly the way he likes it. “Lookit me,” squeals the giant toddler as he shits in the sandbox again, knowing he’ll be long gone before it starts to stink.
As Samuel Johnson once said of Thomas Sheridan, “Such an excess of stupidity, sir, is not in Nature.”
So, by now, even the dumbest, sheet-wearing, Stars-and-Bars, piss-on-the-fire-and-call-in-the-dawgs peckerwood has to know that the cheese has done slid right off King Donald the Short-fingered’s cracker, right?
Even a John Birch bedwetter whose head has been up his ass since Earl Warren fronted for the Supremes can see that the Tangerine Tyrant is long overdue for a stylish canvas blazer with wraparound arms and a corner table at the Rubber Room for himself and all those voices in his head, yeah?
Seriously. Anyone who’s spent any time around Alzheimer’s patients, drug addicts or the criminally insane have seen this behavior before. There is something dreadfully wrong with him, and yet nobody capable of frog-marching him to the screw factory for rethreading has shown any interest in stepping up and performing the necessary laying on of hands.
The hacks running today’s Grand Old Party seem perfectly content to let a lunatic hurl inflammatory and actionable idiocy from the White House like a monkey flinging his own dung in a primate house, as long as he continues to have a pulse and one hand not too busy with masturbation to sign whatever they set before him.
He also makes a lively distraction from their efforts to dismantle the Republic and sell off its parts.
“Mama, what’s ‘health insurance?'”
“Never mind, honey. Just watch the funny orange man.”
Judas Priest. What does a guy gotta do to get impeached around here? Oh, yeah, I remember now.
My bucket runneth over.
It rained all day, which is a good thing, and not just because we live in a desert, either.
Nope, I had things to do, and still have, among them a column and cartoon for Bicycle Retailer and Industry News and a bicycle review for Adventure Cyclist.
Thus it was best that I be confined to quarters and required to pay attention.
Elsewhere, the deluge — no, not the rain, but the shit monsoon that is the reign of King Donald the Short-fingered — continues unabated. His family crest should be a tiny hand stirring a golden toilet with the motto, “L’merde, c’est moi.”
So we’ll ignore that fool and link instead to an interesting read from Cormac McCarthy on the unconscious and its distrust of language. Hardly anyone gets killed horribly in it, but I’ll tell you, he makes me feel like a haunted house.
Everybody must get stoned.
My man Charles Pelkey will be kick-starting the Live Update Guy machinery tomorrow for Paris-Roubaix, so all y’all should bounce that way to say, “Allez.”
We gave the software a bit of a test-drive today and all seems well. As for the race, it looks to be a dusty one, and while Tom Boonen seems the sentimental favorite, the cobbles have no sentiment atall atall.
Meanwhile, King Donald the Short-fingered is looking all thumbs after his Feat of Strength in Syria. We warn the Russians, the Russians warn the Syrians, and hey presto! Twenty-four hours later Assad is back to business as usual, albeit with conventional weapons.
It’s like the worst ass-kicking movie, like, ever:
Don: Hey, Vlad, it’s Don.
Vlad: What up, bruh?
Don: I’m headed over to that punk Bashar’s place to teach him a lesson. Just giving you a head’s up, I know you’re tight and all.
Vlad: No worries, bruh, thanks for the call.
(click)
(30 seconds later)
Bashar: Hello?
Vlad: Yo, Bash’, Don’s coming over to kick your ass.
Bashar: Good time for it, I was just stepping out to the Home Depot. Need some more Roundup. He’ll have to settle for pissing on my lawn or something.
Vlad: Ha ha ha, yeah. Spell his name on it or something. Probably wrong, too.
Bashar: Ha, yeah, for sure.
Vlad: OK, see you.
Bashar: Laters.
Paper! Get your paper here!
Woke up around 3 a.m. feeling as though I had spent the night snorting chain degreaser, convinced my brain had liquified and was seeping out of my snout onto the pillow.
Further sleep proved elusive as Herself arose to shower and the bathroom iPad commenced making news noises. It seemed King Donald the Short-fingered had not actually ordered anyone executed during his performance before the Congress, and the media were as usual focused on packaging rather than content. A golden chest overflowing with excrement is still a box of shit, no matter how many air fresheners are working overtime in Pundit Glade.
Jesus. These people. They install a low bar in the Dark Alley of Presidential Address Expectations, and when Beelzebozo manages to clear it without twisting a cankle they all go rushing after him to see where such Statesmanlike Leadership and Gravitas will take us next and boom! Down they go in a heap, and what oozes out of their bandaged skulls and onto the Innertubes afterward looks worse than what was coming out of mine until I swallowed a Claritin-D 12 Hour and a couple-three-four mugs of hot caffeine in various flavors.
Wipe your noses, shitheads. Try not to use your sleeves.
Patrick O'Grady sells words and pictures to Adventure Cyclist, Bicycle Retailer and Industry News, and pretty much anyone else who can spell his name correctly next to the phrase which sounds so musical to his aged ears: "Pay to the order of. ..." For more on Your Humble Narrator, click the comic.
Patrick O'Grady was bad enough with pen and ink. He got worse
with a keyboard.
Now he has a microphone.
God help us all.
The Old Guys Who Get Fat In Winter Jerseys are back, and Voler's got 'em. Click the image to join the team!
Know your rights, and defend them.
Fight hate.
Defending press freedom since 1970
Colorado Central columnist Hal Walter cranks out a book now and then, and they'd look swell in your library (they also read nicely, too). Click the image to order yours.
Drink the Kool-Aid
Words and pictures on the DogPage © 2019 by Patrick O’Grady/Mad Dog Media. All rights and most lefts reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten, redistributed, laser-printed, photocopied, crocheted into a sampler, knitted into sweater, tattooed on a floozy, spray-painted on an overpass, tapped out in Morse code, sublimated onto a jersey, shared in whispers in the back row of an adult theater, shouted from the rooftops, scored for tuba and banjo, translated into Squinch, or communicated via telepathy without the permission of and hefty payment to a heavily armed, whisky-addled cyclo-cross addict who knows your IP address. Bonehead shysters and the simpletons who employ them, take note: The opinions expressed on the DogPage contain toxic quantities of hyperbole, satire, parody and humor. Pah-ro-dee. Hyyuuu-mor. Acquire a sense of same or read at your own risk.
