Bring back Nixon
You know, I kinda like having slightly long nails. They're not just handy, they're nifty, too. And scratching various erogenous zones, like the upper shoulders, while sporting some decent nails becomes its own kind of low level erotica. For that matter, so is scratching poison oak. Well, a mild case, anyway. But inevitably, something will break one of those nails, which is always a bit of a bitch. Obviously, I'm not eating enough Jell-O. And when was the last time you told yourself that you needed to start eating more Jell-O? Come to think of it, I don't like Jell-O's chances to survive climate change.
“Well my telephone was ringing and they told me it was Chairman Mao, well my telephone was ringing and they told me it was Chairman Mao, You can tell him anything, 'Cause I just don't wanna talk to him now.” – Little Feat, “Apolitical Blues”.
Man, talk about the telephone ringing. It's one of the unfortunate realities of modern charity that once you make a donation or two, well—word gets around. You is on Da List, the big one they keep at Listco Central HQ in Undisclosed, Utah. I now realize that I truly do need to keep my land line, if only to act as an effective decoy in this world of raging phone farms. The land line is sorta like sticking a hat on a stick and raising it above the rocks in a good ole Western gunfight and letting these phone-slingers blast away.
These calls are an unfortunate and constant reminder that our political system has been completely corrupted by King Kaish. Mongo millions is now just so entrenched and so overtly gross as to give a feeling of true despair when contemplating how its excesses might one day be truly trimmed and made more sanely European. The whole game is really pretty friggin' rotten, and it seems as though the rottenness has not abated a whole lot in recent years. What a shame. Not that it's unfixable. But it will be so harrowing as to be daunting. Big Money has a habit of putting its self-preservation way up on the list of Shit To Do.
Speaking of rotten, hell, back in the late '60s and early '70s, we thought Nixon was an asshole. Now, it would appear that's exactly what the current Republican Party needs—a new goddamn Nixon. He'd be quite the cheese right now.
Football Fetish Notes, Part 2—These NFL games on Thursday? They suck. The league should get rid of 'em. It's just too much fucking football. Thursday games means football four of seven nights a week. That's too much fetishistic football gluttony courtesy of Helco and its subsidiaries, now too numerous to list. Thursday night should be “Let's Listen to Music on the Stereo Night” across America. The beauty of time is that it's snowing.