Miss Mia Sopaipilla speaks out boldly when others remain silent.
“Impeach him? Of course you impeach him. And convict him, if you haven’t been ‘fixed’ like the Turk, who by the way doesn’t think you ‘fixed’ anything by having his nuts cut off. They weren’t broken, f’chrissake. Not like the Senate’s, anyway. Talk about your nutless wonders.
“If this clown were a cat, we’d have hissed at him and swatted him and run his fat orange ass all the way back to New York by now.
“We’d have shit in Pelosi’s shoes, too. And barfed hairballs into the kneepads McConnell wears when he’s getting the Kentucky Meat Shower at those Federalist Society clusterfucks.
Oof. The allergies are fierce. I slept OK last night, thanks to a hit of Benadryl, but the previous night I woke up at midnight with my nose running like a Democrat after the White House.
Snorting and snuffling like a hog hunting truffles, I had to relocate to the spare bedroom so that Herself could bag the Z’s she needs to help Darth Goodhair run the Energy Department.
And I felt like hammered shit most of yesterday, so none of the ol’ bikey ridey for Your Humble Narrator. In fact, I suspect that a two-hour trail ride through the junipers may have triggered the late-night snotlocker meltdown.
But we were talking about cool cats, and so here’s the tale of a Scottish cycle tourist who made a new friend on his two-wheeled trip around the world.
I suggested a global bicycle tour to Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) and his adjutant, Miss Mia Sopaipilla, and they told me I could fuck right off with that shit and bring them something to delicious to eat at once, if not sooner.
Also, here’s Marc Maron’s interview with T Bone Burnett, a very cool cat indeed who’s taking a hiatus from production to release his first album in 11 years, “The Invisible Light.”
Burnett’s chat with Maron covers a lot of waterfront, from the Beat Generation to Jackson Pollock, Jimmie Rodgers to “True Detective.” Did you know that Robert Johnson’s real name was Dusty Spencer? Or that the blues came from Texas? That mariachi music comes from the French?
Me neither. Maybe it’s the Benadryl talking. Just what I need, another voice in my head.
His Excellency scans The Compound for unauthorized personnel.
Huh. I’ve actually managed to accomplish a few things lately. Go figure.
My April cartoon has been delivered to BRAIN. And my review of the Salsa Journeyman Claris 650 — print version and its two-minute video teaser — is all but complete; I’m just waiting for some Salsoid to answer a couple of questions about spec.
Unzip over to Voler to join the team! Use the Secret Code (OLDGUYS15) to get 15% off your purchase. And no, goddamnit, for the last time, it does not come with fries!
Two other review bikes have been shipped back to their respective motherships, greatly enhancing velocipede-storage capacity in the garage.
Sue Barue, The Fearsome Furster, has passed her annual checkup and had a brace of new window gussets installed, so maybe I’ll be able to hear the stereo again.
The cats have been given a vigorous spring airing. Field Marshal Turkish von Turkenstein (commander, 1st Feline Home Defense Regiment) inspected the perimeter yesterday and collected samples of this year’s grass crop for scientific analysis, the results of which were displayed on the living-room carpet this morning. Miss Mia Sopaipilla took up her station in the clothes dryer, and reported that for reasons unknown the lint filter seems to be full of cat hair.
And now I have exactly fuck-all to do. Nobody’s sending me to Taiwan, or Sea Otter, I won’t have a cartoon due until mid-April, and I’m fresh out of review bikes.
So I guess I’ll just have to ride one of my own. Sucks to be me.
