We’ve had some pretty stunning sunrises around here the past couple days, and if there were a photographer in the house s/he might have made something of them. Alas, you have to settle for some old fool and his iPhone.
We’ve been getting some stellar sunrises and sunsets lately. No wonder the mountains are called the Sandias.
The celestial is often preferable to the terrestrial.
Checking out morning as it breaks over the Sandias beats inspecting cat barf before coffee.
And yes, I have some experience in these matters.
I’ve spared you the ground-level snaps.
You’re welcome.
Looks like a fine day to ride the bike. But when is it not?
Steven Spielberg with his trademark boiling clouds ain’t got nothin’ on the real deal.
I’m glad I saw this before Darth Cheeto’s “press conference” yesterday. Otherwise I might have thought it was God coming down to dick-punch us all for putting this two-bit totalitarian in the Oval Office.
Sure puts the “dick” in “dictator,” doesn’t he?
Fire! Fire! Fire! (Actually, it’s just sunrise.)
Well, now we’re really fucked. The fire god has eaten the moon.
Not even Donald Trump or ISIS can stop this from happening.
… the sun rose today. I was beginning to have my doubts.
Color? Don’t talk to me about color. All is black.
Feeble sunrise this morning. The Universe must be disappointed in the results of the Democratic presidential primary.
Just wait till it hears about the results of the GOP presidential primary.
Still, things could be worse.
Oh, God, no, not another one of THOSE days.
O, noes, please don’t make me ride that old bikey bike, whatever it was I did I won’t do it again, I’ll be good, I promise, ow wow yow zow.
Patrick O'Grady has been making stuff up since, well, forever. He started doing it for money in high school and didn't quit until he retired in 2022. (To be honest, if you waved enough Dead President Trading Cards at him, he might do it for money again.) Until then, this blog is his pro-bonehead work. For more on Your Humble Narrator, click the comic.
The Radio Free Dogpatch podcast, which has been enjoying a refreshing dirt nap for the past two years, has arisen from its foul grave, casting aside its moldering blankie of refuse, dog shit, and critical letters to the editor. It will shamble around and about as the spirit moves. Click the graphic for the latest episode.
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Hal Walter ranches burros, a teenage son, and words from his rancheroo high in the mountains of south-central Colorado. Click the pic to sign up for his Substack newsletter, which goes out to subscribers whenever he's in the mood.
Drink the Kool-Aid
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