Tag: The Hilldebeast

Jason Isbell and The Honorables

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments

I wonder whether Jason Isbell ever envisioned himself wearing a tux and singing this song to a bunch of Democrats at their national convention in Chicago.

We didn’t get to hear James Taylor perform — Sweet Baby James got the hook as various The Honorables ran long — but I think Jason pretty much got ’er done.

If I were to give anybody the hook so James could slip in a pertinent lyric or two it would’ve been Dick Durbin, who really phoned it in. Meanwhile, the Hilldebeast reminded us all that she will always be The Smartest Person in the Room, which for my money is one of the reasons why she topped out as secretary of state. But she had the room from jump, so what the hell do I know?

I certainly wouldn’t have cut Georgia Sen. Raphael Warnock, a Baptist pastor and reliable Bringer of the Fire. Not even for Sweet Baby James:

“We must choose between the promise of January 5th and the peril of January 6th, a nation that embraces all of us or just some of us.”

And speaking of fire-bringing, Texas Rep. Jasmine Crockett dropped a few well-placed rounds in you-know-how’s AO while discussing the differences between the two major-party candidates:

“One candidate worked at McDonald’s, while she was in college at an HBCU. The other was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, and helped his daddy in the family business: housing discrimination. She became a career prosecutor, while he became a career criminal, with 34 felonies, two impeachments, and one porn star to prove it.”

“Kamala Harris has a résumé. Donald Trump has a rap sheet.”

We were up way past our bedtime watching night one of the DNC and we will not be doing that again. I figure to start paying attention again when Kamala Harris and Tim Walz take the stage as the real, sure-’nough nominees.

Joe Biden was up past his bedtime, too. Swear to Dog, at one point I thought he was talking like the top of the ticket again. But then the boisterous crowd knocked him off track a bit, he started to ramble, and we closed the iPad and called it a night.

Lemons and lemonade

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 12 Comments

Looks like another scorcher out there today.

El Presidente made it to Fanta Se OK, so I guess nobody stole his car during his brief sojourn in The Duck! City.

It must ease the mind to have a coterie of swole dudes with earpieces riding shotgun on your road trips. Oh, they’re not as heavily armed as our typical teenage tosspot swerving a stolen Honda Civic through The Big I, one hand on the horn and the other out the window, its extended middle digit expressing his fervent desire that all who see it enjoy a ride of a different sort altogether.

But these are trying times. One must make do. When life delivers lemons, one asks one’s SS compañero in the back seat, “Fuck I want with these lemons? Pass me that rocket launcher, Slick, I want to clear a lane.”

I bet José was rocking the A/C all the way, too. Sure, it kills the gas mileage, which must drop that big black presidential pimpmobile down to meters per gallon from miles. But hey, it’s not like he’s whipping out his Visa card between gunfights at the Maverik station.

“This tank’s on my boy the Mad Dog. Sure, he’s on the dole, but his old lady makes fat stacks helping Strangelove find the owner’s manual for the Doomsday Machine and whatnot. Trust me, they can afford it.”

There are a lot of federal paws in the old Dog’s pocket these days as José tries to piss out actual and metaphorical fires from Canoncito to Kyiv. And for his troubles people from right and lift smirk that he’s a senile old fool who should be wetting himself in a Home somewhere, his greatest ambition to cop a feel of a plump caregiver.

Lemonade from lemons, folks. José’s finest quality may be that he is not Adolf Twitler. Just think about that pendejo, completely off the leash in a second term, doing whatever struck his fancy between inhaling Happy Meals and cheating at golf.

Herself and I were talking about José, Adolf, and the Hilldebeast just last night, and my old Pueblo Chipseal colleague Milan Simonich must’ve been reading our minds when he wrote this “Ringside Seat” column for The New Mexican:

To date, Biden’s greatest accomplishment is saving a nation from another four years of Trump, who somehow maintained a political base after kowtowing to Russian President Vladimir Putin.

That sad part for America and for Biden is that he didn’t run for president in 2016. He would have trounced Trump in that election. In turn, Trump’s corruption would have been restricted to his business deals.

The Democrats, bound to blind faith and political dynasties, nominated Hillary Clinton in 2016. She had just as many negatives as Trump.

Clinton was the wrong choice for the Democratic Party but the right matchup for Trump.

Clinton became the first Democratic presidential nominee to lose Michigan and Pennsylvania since 1988. Those two states were key in providing Trump with his victory in the Electoral College. Clinton won the popular vote, which became a meaningless statistic.

Biden probably became president four years too late to do his best work. He’s not as quick or convincing as he once was.

He’s also not Trump. That’s reason for hope in a fiery season of discontent.

Sure, we can do better. We can always do better, and should. But we’re gonna have to work at it.

“Grab an oar, Skeeter, and put your back into it. We cain’t all of us be philosopher-kings, and this Ship of State don’t row itself.”

November surprise

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 16 Comments

"Wake me when it's over," says the Turk. I'll need a spatula to flip him from time to time so he doesn't get bedsores.
“Wake me when it’s over,” says the Turk. I’ll need a big-ass spatula to flip him from time to time so he doesn’t get bedsores.

Hey, I’m surprised it’s November. Aren’t you?

Last night Herself showed me a meme making the rounds on Facebutt, something about 2016 being the kind of year an apocalyptic movie would use to set the scene for how the whole world went to hell.

Sounds about right to me.

But is it really only a preview of coming attractions?

Got 'er done. Go thou and do likewise.
Got ‘er done. Go thou and do likewise.

Take this presidential election (please). It matters who wins, of course. But even if The Hilldebeast prevails over Insane Clown Pussy, unless the Senate and House flip to Donk control, the next four years will make the last eight look like the Golden Age of Athenian democracy.

Hell, I anticipate that the immediate aftermath might embarrass any banana republics that aren’t already embarrassed on our behalf. Whether he loses big or little we should not expect ICP to go gentle into that good night. Imagine a large, oversugared toddler being dragged to bed after learning Santa brought him wool undies instead of a red trike. Better take his phone away first.

His supporters will be equally sanguine about an unhappy outcome, I’m certain. The Secret Service is probably already taking bids on Iron Man suits, Batmobiles and Terminators.

Mind you, this assumes an unhappy outcome for ICP and his merry men, which is not at all a sure thing. Plenty of smart folks gave the old hee, and also the haw, to the notion of Alfred E. “Worry” Bush ever getting into the Oval Office, and look how that turned out, if you can bear to.

We’re in what used to be called “the final stretch.” Alas, it’s only the beginning.

Sweet dreams

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 8 Comments

Mister Boo is overjoyed at the news of Herself's imminent return.
Mister Boo is overjoyed at the news of Herself’s imminent return.

Our long national nightmare is at an end.

I’m not talking about The Hilldebeast’s emails, which continue to be the gift that keeps on giving, even when they’re apparently not even hers. No, I’m talking about the imminent return to El Rancho Pendejo of Herself, who has been road-tripping for two weeks through Tennessee, Colorado and Utah.

Looking north from near the top of the Hillsdale Loop. To the south sits Interstate 40, which is a good deal less scenic.
Looking north from near the top of the Hillsdale Loop. To the south sits Interstate 40, which is a good deal less scenic.

The Boo will be ecstatic, or as close to that state as is Boo-manly possible (an excitable boy he is not).

Herself is the only human he really cares about. I am deemed suitable for short periods as a food delivery/excretion collection specialist (second class), but when she is around The Boo wouldn’t piss on me if I were on fire.

Oddly, though, his favorite spot for daytime naps — even if she’s home — is my office, just behind my chair. Go figure.

Meanwhile, yesterday in my capacity as commander of the 29er Jones Mechanized Infantry, I seized the Hillsdale Loop in the name of the people. Being a heavily armed elderly white guy I went unmolested by law enforcement. But I eventually gave it back anyway. Hey, somebody has to let The Boo out.

And finally, Khal checks in from scenic metropolitan Bombtown, where he is recovering from some medical experiments and limited to hollering at Siri via iPhone:

I am in an immobilization sling for another month so typing is “hunt and peck” with my left hand. Hence I don’t do too much of it.

It’s getting to the point where I might be able to take off the sling in a couple weeks to carefully work the right arm so might regain my voice, so to speak, and that will be a relief.

Probably no biking till January except on the stationary torture setup.

—K

P.S.: All the best to you and the gang.

 

A public service announcement

~ Patrick O'Grady ~ 21 Comments

When the going gets weird. ...
When the going gets weird. …

Unless Zombie Hunter S. Thompson resurrects the National Affairs Desk atop a taco truck outside the University of Nevada-Las Vegas I will not be watching tonight’s final “debate.”

I suppose there might be some entertainment value in watching the increasingly deranged Ronald McDonald McTrump shout in answer to every question, “You’re fired! You’re fired! YOU’RE FIRED!!!” Or maybe lunge across the desk and sink his fangs into The Hilldebeast’s throat as she stabs him in the venom sac with a ceremonial dagger smuggled to her by the Illuminati.

But goddamn, I’ve had enough of this for one lifetime, in this realm or any other. It’s like watching Maude trade zingers with Yog-Sothoth on the Necronomicon Network.

“Ph’nglui mglw’nafh Cthulhu R’lyeh wgah’nagl fhtagn!”

“God will get you for that, Donald.”

As soon as early voting commences here in the Land of Enchantment, I will bicycle over to the polls and vote against Insane Clown Pussy. This may be pointless — Real Clear Politics has HRC solidly out front in New Mexico, and the NYT’s Upshot has her with a 92 percent chance of victory nationwide — but insulting him on Twitter seems to have had little effect. Thus I leave nothing to chance.

And if the GOP candidate should transmogrify into a Great Old One and devour the shrieking studio audience tonight, well, that’s showbiz. Doesn’t mean I have to watch.

If only it were true that whatever happens in Vegas stays there.