Arise, ye prisoners of dehydration

All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray.

The rain continues.

Clearly the gods have finally heard our sniveling here in the northernmost reaches of the Chihuahuan Desert. UnRealtors throughout the Greater Duck! City Metropolitan Area rejoice and sing “Hosanna!” Which is not a Gilda Radner character from Back in the Day® when “SNL” was still funny.

Anyone hoping to float the Rio anytime soon will still need 32-inch wheels, knobby tires, and hydraulic disc brakes for their rafts and kayaks. Nevertheless, arise, ye prisoners of dehydration, etc.

Raindrops keep falling on my head. Maybe with a little fertilizer I can get a fresh crop of hair started up there.

I went running in the rain yesterday, and it seems that I will be doing it again today, if I want to enjoy any class of healthful outdoor exercise, which I do. There’s not enough water for swimming — not yet, anyway, unless you’re suddenly awakened while sleeping rough in an arroyo — and since Herself works from home on Thursdays, if I should happen to make an indoor thing of myself she will find some chore for me to perform.

Anyway, running in the rain gets me away from the Mac, where the news is.

Jesus wept. The Squeaker of the House just shut the joint down and sent all his clock-watching monkey-spankers home after doing less actual work in the past few months than Mitch McConnell, who at least had the excuse of being kept alive in cryogenic sleep while RFK sewed him up a new body out of fresh roadkill and a couple prehistoric Trump Steaks from Natalie’s freezer.

Too bad. I was looking forward to watching that caravan of fools try to impeach Field Marshal Scheisskopf von Kegsbreath while he heaves and grunts through a few of his weak-ass pullups, stinking of cheap O-club gin and kicking his legs like a cranky toddler resisting bedtime.

That’s probably why Beelzebozo ordered RFK to rebuild The Turtle. He wanted to make sure the Senate had the numbers to keep Kegsbreath on his sinking PBR, if the House actually grew a pair, and if that meant reinstalling the old Kentucky roadblock as a collection of rotting coonskins that Dan’l Boone wouldn’t wear to a goat fuck, well, tough shit, Mitch. Die on your own time.