My girl Catherine Connolly, the president of Ireland, “may or may not” be available to meet with American president Donald Trump when he visits her country next month.
She obviously has more important things to do.
That dipshit Todd Blanche has released three million pages of the Epstein files. Is it me, or does that number sound astronomical?
Of course no one is counting the redacted pages…
And not one name has surfaced…..
So lackey White House Press Secretary Karoline Leavitt has to carry around the president’s diapers.
You didn’t expect his bald-headed, poopy-butt excellency to carry them himself did you?
And where the hell is Waldo (Mitch)?
That horse’s ass Mike Lindell is embroiled in Pillowgate, accused of illegally giving away 5,000 pillows in his campaign to run for Minnesota’s governorship.
Now how low on the totem pole do you sit if your vote can be purchased with a pillow?
I’m thinking pretty low.
But it is Minnesota.
Meanwhile, twenty-five (Trump will tell you it is only 5% of the nation) states have filed suit against the criminal organization known as the Trump administration for his widely illegal and damaging tariffs and their deleterious effects on their respective states’ populations.
A little something once known as quality of life.
Ever hear of it?
Don’t look now, but as they toy with the United States in the Strait of Hormuz, Iran has achieved weapons-grade nuclear capability…
Ho-hum.
Whether you like it or not, whether you want it or not, times change with or without you.
The year is 1987 and I am Executive Chef over a large kitchen staff in a very high-volume 500-seat tourist trap fine-dining seafood restaurant, sitting atop a wooden pier on the central southern Pacific coast yawning at the setting sun…..
July 4th weekend.
Large.
In my huge commercial kitchen, one of the busiest stations was the steamer where all types of sea treasures were cooked, including about 80 lobster dinners per evening.
I had hired Chris, a young cook who was a student at Santa Barbara City College and he was being “thrown to the wolves” landing a job under a perfectionist asshole chef like me with very little tolerance for mistakes.
The first ticket on the wheel was for a Blue Maine Lobster dinner.
Chris took the small net, approached the lobster tank, and extracted a beautiful 2-pound cold-water delight.
Before placing the snapping crustacean on the cutting board, he lifted the entrée held it aloft, and recited: Oh beautiful sea creature, God’s child, please forgive me for ending your precious life.
Then he deftly split the lobster in two, removing the entrails and waste before cleaning it and placing it on a vented 200 pan and into the steamer.
He did it 143 times that night.
He apologized to each and every lobster before placing the steamed product on a plate with drawn butter and lemons.
I could have killed the little shit.
Thirty-nine years later I look back at that diminutive Granola, and I realize that he was the only person who was right in that entire kitchen.
Chris, I hope you had a good life.
Stay well.
