Whaddaya know? Seems it’s not gonna be 70-something and sunny forever.
It was bite-ass cold this morning, and thank God only Herself had to be up and at ‘em early. Me, I burrowed ever deeper into the blankets and stayed there until the crack of 7:30, when it was still too friggin’ cold for my taste. Why, I actually contemplated pulling on the old sweat pants once I tunneled out in search of hot coffee.
Happily, one need only read the morning news to get the blood boiling.
The UCI is starting to look like a Dumpster full of rats into which a lit string of inch-and-a-half Black Cats has been introduced. I’d prefer to nuke the entire site from orbit (it’s the only way to be sure), but if I can’t get a big bang I’ll take a series of little ones.
More shoes are said to be dropping directly (think an earthquake whose epicenter is directly under Imelda Marcos’ closet), so if it sounds like the combined New York, Boston and Chicago marathons are pounding by outside your window, well, you heard it here first.
Elsewhere, John McCain is about three brain cells away from telling squirrels to get off his fucking lawn. The whole point of marrying into the booze business is to avoid drinking the cheap popskull that dissolves you into an asshole and a mouth with nothing in between. I married into the book business, f’fucksake, but you don’t see me reading any of Sean Hannity’s bullshit.
Speaking of which, and finally, Triumph the Insult Comic Dog was at the last debate. So there is some good news after all.