A cease-fire in which the fire has not ceased. A 10-point program that seems to leave Iran in the driver’s seat. Also, did I mention that the firing has yet to cease?
I have some thoughts about a long-overdue firing. The underperforming employee is pictured above. Let’s fire him — to the moon. Tell him it’s made of Mickey D’s cheeseburgers and he can be king of the place until the oxygen and/or ketchup runs out.
A hard-and-fast rule around Ye Olde Dogge Haus is, “Disregard anything that follows the phrase ‘Trump says. …”
But rules are made to be broken. And while I had been planning a grocery trip, now I wonder whether digging a bunker in the back yard might be a better use of my time.
This fuckin’ guy. A mouth like a yawning hippo and the brains of a flea on the hippo’s arse.
And nary a zookeeper in sight.
A friend and I were chatting this morning and he wondered why we hadn’t been hearing anything lately about the whole “running out of ammo” thing that the press had been pushing not long ago, as the U.S. military pitched top-shelf armaments at bargain-basement threats.
So … what exactly will John Whine be packing for the showdown in this Western he’s produced, directed, and stars in?
A few of the lefty bloggers I read are thinking the Fat Man wants to go all — well, Fat Man, the bigger-and-better 2026 edition — on Iran. And here I sit reminiscing about the Good Old Days, taking cover under my desk at Randolph AFB Elementary.
That was one of those solid Air Force issue deals, not this cheapo Office Depot number I’ve been working at for the past couple decades. I’m not sure it’s up to the task of sparing Your Humble Narrator that difficult job interview down below, at The Lake O’ Fire Apocalypse-Intelligencer.
Notice how His Excremency pitches the “death of a civilization” as though it were just another shitty episode of reality TV: “We will find out tonight, one of the most important moments in the long and complex history of the World.” But first, this message from Mar-a-Lago-Mars!
What I’d like to find out — and what the legacy media is not telling me — is what the other nuclear powers think about this slobbering shit-gibbon swinging his ’shroom around like a Central Avenue tranq addict oscillating between peeing and jacking off.
We know where Congress stands: watching from a safe distance and doing fuck-all, as per usual. Waiting for the midterms, I expect.
Aren’t we all? ’Scuse me, got a hole to dig. …
What a great week to be offworld, hey?
I mean, sure, the Artemis II’s toilet keeps crapping out (har de har har). And then there’s that whole “hitching a ride home on the moon’s gravity” thing, which sounds kinda crucial, because nobody wants to ask the Vogons for a lift, what with the bad poetry and all.
But at least the astronauts don’t have to have one of those tiresome “the president would like a word” wankfests with War Piggy, a.k.a. Addled Shitler, because he’s too busy trying to see to it that they don’t have a world to return to.
Sigh. Have you noticed how we keep launching all the wrong people into space? I can think of one eejit — plus another 18 in the presidential line of succession — who would make an excellent audience for a Vogon poetry reading somewhere on the other side of the galaxy.
My man Ken Layne says in his latest episode of “Desert Oracle Radio” that he got the idea for his podcast from (wait for it) Tom Waits.
Somehow this fails to surprise me. Mr. Waits casts a wide loop. Wasn’t that long ago that people thought he was Leon Redbone. Turns out he was Ken Layne. Frank Zappa was Leon Redbone.
Not really.
Here’s Ken Layne:
One of the initial inspirations for this radio show was a Tom Waits interview I read in an alt-weekly newspaper three decades ago.
So Tom Waits has these bits that he’s doing for the press tour so the reporters aren’t too annoying. They can’t keep up because he’s just rolling out these little stories, tall tales, routines. And one of them went something like this. He says, and I’m quoting incorrectly for memory:
‘Oh, I’ve got a radio show now, out in the desert, in a little desert town, it’s called ‘Strange and Unusual Facts.’ And then he’d say some oddball factoid about lemurs or the height of Big Ben or how many legs a centipede has, which is variable, turns out. Then, Tom Waits tells the music writer for the alt-weekly, ‘It’s a small station and the signal doesn’t get far, but people are enjoying the show, and, in fact, a number of people are moving to this desert town just to hear it.’
That always sort of stuck with me. Because somewhere up ahead would be this radio show in the little desert town of Joshua Tree.
And you know what? I’ve had a number of people tell me in person, to my face, that they moved here because of this radio show.
So, Tom, if you’re out there tonight, thanks for the idea.
I’ve taken a few ideas from Tom Waits myself, not all of them good. Never went with the soul patch, though. That was Frank Zappa. Or was it Leon Redbone?
More than a few folks in the media have expressed surprise that NASA’s reboot of a flyby round the moon hasn’t engaged more eyeballs.
Huh. Well. …
It could have something to do with the fact that we are at wa … pardon, on “an excursion” … in the Middle East. Again.
Or that a third-tier reality-TV character put us there, when he wasn’t busy cheating at golf, stenciling his accursed name on everything, and/or lying through his false teeth.
Maybe the suckers that voted for him are too busy trying to squeeze their eyeballs back into their sockets after a glance at the latest gas prices, or a peek at his 2027 wish list for the Pentagon — $1.5 trillion, about a 40 percent jump from the last military-industrial goodie bag.
Can’t have guns and butter, of course, so better learn to like your toast dry. If you still have the bread to buy bread.
Me, I still like watching our tentative steps at space exploration. We caught the burn that took Artemis II — or Orion, Integrity, whatever the fuck this thing is called, Christ, no wonder nobody’s paying any attention to it — out of Earth’s orbit and toward the moon just before dinner last night. A missile launch that isn’t intended to kill someone, or a bunch of someones. Feature that, if you can.
So remember when you’re feeling very small and insecure, how very unlikely is your birth. And pray that there’s intelligent life somewhere up in space, ’cause there’s bugger-all down here on Earth.
Mad Blog Media 