Since I am always giving public figures a load of crap when I am able, it’s time to mend my ways, but first…
Every time a serial killer’s victim is held in the bottom of a dry well, and every time she looks at the different colored bloody broken fingernails of the failed efforts of previous victims, she can give a heartfelt “thank you” to Carlee Russell for the slow response from law enforcement.
She is an idiot.
But then again, that’s pretty high up the chain in Alabama.
She could possibly be sentenced up to two years in prison, but did I mention it’s Alabama?
And exactly who does that meathead Son of the South Ron Dedumbass have to thank for his retelling of our American history and the slavery movement in America?
Why Mammy Dedumbass, of course. I am sure she has some good old stories to tell from the slave days of the Desantis’ long line of African relatives where it all started.
My girl Marjorie Taylor Greene needs to speak with her fashion consultant. Her low hanging fruit are badly in need of an uplift.
Three words for you.
Push-up bra. (the Domestic Despot just punched me in the arm).
She is such a hollow representation, that MTG, that I don’t even read any of her antics anymore.
We make fun of our fools running the government for the former Most Powerful Nation on Earth, but that’s all we do. The fact of the matter is that it is downright humiliating and we are just a joke to the other countries of the world. And if that crazy bastard Trump should actually win the election, he has promised to free all his stupid followers arrested for their roles in the Jan. 6th attempted coup.
There hasn’t been a release of this many crooks since they thawed out John Spartan and Simon Phoenix in Demolition Man.
Poor form for the Ukrainian fencer at the World Championships who refused to shake hands with a Russian opponent.
Wrong.
Leave politics at home when you are competing because this is an arena for giving your absolute best efforts. But at least she secured her spot in the next Olympic Games.
Not sure exactly which shit-for-brains journalist thinks that our fears about Saudi Arabia and their nuclear capability are “overblown.”
Of course not, silly.
It’s not like they have any money.
Boo fucking hoo.
That carnival barker-scheister-low-life Todd Chrisley is crying about his poor living conditions in jail. He is having to suffer the ignomy of having his picture taken when he’s asleep. He didn’t mention having his frail white wrists pinned down as several demented prisoners took turns with him. I guess he was OK with that, it’s the unapproved picture-taking that has pushed him over the edge.
Check out this autobiographical shorty from my childhood in a foreign country.
Q
Querulous implies complaining, something I do, but mostly in private. My problem is that I’ve never given a shit about anything, so if I don’t care, I don’t really have the right to complain, right? The first story has plenty of it.
A quandary by definition, is an uncertain state where your mind cannot or will not, make a clear-cut decision, perhaps because nothing is clear-cut anymore.
In a perfect world, everyone questions everything.
In reality, very few question anything. As long as people are people, you (we) need to continue to ask until we are satisfied with the answer proffered. Never having to ask and never suffering injury is truly Pollyannaspeak.
Reminds me of the very first job I ever had. I was five years old when I befriended Johnny. We became best friends as we were the only American children living in the tiny Japanese village of Nakagami-Akashima. Our “compound” held four American families and Johnny was my next-door neighbor. We both held down the same “job.” We were hired by a local papa-san (anyone older than my brother was a papa-san to me) as his, for lack of a better word, slaves.
Actually, we were subcontractors, performing services for compensation. On Saturday, we would go early in the morning on his dusty wooden cart pulled by two small, but old, brown donkeys. There was a small patch of woods and Johnny and I would fill the entire cart with wood, some pieces even too big for our little spaghetti-arms to hoist. Papa-san would sit in the cart barking orders and drinking whiskey. After what seemed like days, the cart was loaded and back we went to the village. Invariably, papa-san would have to wake us up from our exhausted sleep.
Turns out the wood was for firing the furnace for the community bathhouse, as there was no internal plumbing (outside of our compound) in the entire village. Everyone in town would eventually make their way to the bathhouse.
Papa-san asked Johnny if we wanted ten-yen (about two cents) or something else. Now ten-yen might not sound like much, but it might as well have been ten million dollars to us. We could literally live for weeks off that kind of cash. Sno-cones, candies. We could get a hundred pieces of candy!
Here is where the quandary part comes in.
The “something else” papa-san offered was the opportunity to go up on the narrow, rickety bamboo walkway he had constructed his drunk-ass self. From up there you could look down on the entire bathhouse and all the naked girls, or so he claimed.
Johnny and I had a decision to make, one that could possibly be life-defining. After the torture of loading wood all day, this was really a no-brainer.
Johnny smiled at me as he flipped his ten-yen piece, dreaming of the sweet treasures to come.
He looked really small down there from the walkway.
*****
Stay well.
