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Most important to me, not another windbag Senator (with or without luminescent teefies) who knows better than me how my life should be run.
And if it can’t be Charles Austin (or me), this’ll do just fine.
THIS MAKES ME HAPPY UPDATE: Fred Thompson, genuine bad-ass conservative (at least in my books):“I am absolutely delighted by this selection. Once again, John McCain has shown that he is an independent thinker who paints in bold strokes. Sarah Palin is a conservative reformer with executive experience who will bring a breath of fresh air to Washington. She will be an ideal running mate for John McCain, and will make a major contribution to our country’s future.”
PRACTICALLY DELIRIOUS NOW UPDATE: Via the Pistolero:
I’m crushing, majorly. Her old man won some bad-ass snowmobile races, too — a gearhead oilman. If America chooses Barry NMI Obama over this, I might just buy a coat and move to Alaska. OK, that’s crazy talk.
Not much to talk about here — I have managed to run off all but the most hardy sonsabitches, and sweet Joanie.
So today I swapped out all the hoses and belts on the ancient Chebbie, and instead of working, I went kayaking. It was a nice run, being at 70cfm, almost 3 times the usual. And I was alone instead of nursing commode-hugging-drunk women down the stream. I’ve got a little list here with 10 things I should have done instead, but I sure did love doing some paddling, even in the rain.
OK, then — Joe Biden? Obama found someone with greater self-esteem, huh?
Finally, the Commie Olys are over. I love the Olympics for the most part, but could not get into these, except for those gals who won the beach volleyball. That was fun and exciting and I could tell they cared.
Mr. Ed Carl Edwards won at Bristol, and that was pretty much the best race all year, I still think the much-hated Kyle Busch is gonna win the Cup, and that’s alright by me. The sumbitch is a race-car driver.
I have no place to watch NFL games this year, besides my couch.
One of my all-time favorite SRV tunes:
Uno mas:
Fookin hell - not just Chuck Berry, not just with George Thorogodd, but SRV, too. Jeebus:
With new polls showing Barack Obama’s once-commanding lead over John McCain all but evaporated, the Obama campaign announced today it has begun deploying its vast volunteer army of downtown hipster douchebags to help reconnect the presumptive Democratic candidate with middle-American voters.
“However, if Barack Obama wants to have a discussion about truly questionable associations, let’s start with his relationship with the unrepentant terrorist William Ayers, at whose home Obama’s political career was reportedly launched. Mr. Ayers was a leader of the Weather Underground, a terrorist group responsible for countless bombings against targets including the U.S. Capitol, the Pentagon and numerous police stations, courthouses and banks. In recent years, Mr. Ayers has stated, ‘I don’t regret setting bombs … I feel we didn’t do enough.’
There’s an undeniable joy in seeing this particular bit of excrement hit the fan. I can still recall my grandfather, an FDR man to the core, utterly enraged over the WU antics. Being about 7 or 8, I had not Clue Numero Uno what he was on about, but it was not happy-time with him over the bomb-throwing pinkos. He was right, of course, and he’d be sick to death about Barry and his buds being the Lead Donkies.
I never could convince him, in later years, that FDR was the main enabler for the filthy hippies, but he lived through the Depression and I didn’t, so he trumped me pretty handily. I still owe that man a lot for what he taught me.
Turns out Bigfoot was just a rubber suit. Two researchers on a quest to prove the existence of Bigfoot say that the carcass encased in a block of ice — handed over to them for an undisclosed sum by two men who claimed to have found it — was slowly thawed out, and discovered to be a rubber gorilla outfit.
Dammittalltohell. I bet next that Chupacabra is going to be determined to be the deputy’s shaved blue tick hound chasing a tennis ball.
As a fellow drunkard, I can appreciate the confusion. Thank God I don’t have a co-blogger to muck things up even further. One thing you can count on from Cole is a seemingly-endless series of posts about the cross in the sand clambake. The religious component never fails to set him off. But maybe he’s tidied up his psyche some…or his readership.
I just burned up not one, but two, single-board computers by plugging them into the 48v power supply instead of the 12v power supply. The wisp of smoke and smell of burning plastic wasn’t a big enough clue from the first one that I’d effed up, so I did it to the second one, too. Those were my last two, and we’re officially “4-6 weeks” from delivery of new ones. The GBP thinks he can probably save them by replacing a resistor or a capacitor or some other funky little squiggly-looking thingy. Christ, I hope so…I’ve got not just alpha testing to finish, not just other producty stuff on the drawing board, not just super-interested beta testers, but real live cash-in-hand customers I’m going to have to placate somehow. I hate electricity.
I’m now going to get drunk, and then shoot somebody/something/myself. Maybe I’ll just go eat a chicken fried steak or something equally heinous, but then I’d have to shower since it’s about 100% humidity today, and I’ve been working in the garage lab. Crap. Now I’ll have to work on the dumb websites and make brochures and other marketing stuff that I’m completely horrible at. I don’t market, I sell. I wish I could market…those guys seem pretty cool.
Obama’s tire gauge mini-crusade was a mortifying misfire with those same voters — a shiny little gadget specializing in the literally lightweight issue of air versus the greasy, brawny push for massive, phallic drilling into the seabed of mother earth. Symbols matter!
What a fucking lunatic. When did Camille go so non-linear? Maybe she always was, and I’m just dumb enough to have misread her for 20 years. Do ya reckon Camille even knows what a valve stem is, much less where it’s located? Someone needs to inform her that that air doesn’t float into tires via purity of will and good graces — it has to be compressed by greasy, brawny, massive, phallic pistons into greasy, brawny, massive, not-as-phallic (since they don’t really move much) cylinders of hard, cold steel. There’s a couple of symbols for her and NMI to contemplate during their afternoon naptime meditations on conserving our way to global greatness.
I guess it’s too late to start a Whale Oil Conservation movement? No, now we gotta save the stupid whales.
OH DEAR IT GETS BETTER UPDATE:Hillary is setting feminism back — defining women as petulant brats driven by emotion rather than logic and fair play. What the hell was all that horsehit about symbols, you dizzy cow? Pick a theme! And she still loves Madonna, madly…four damn pages worth of hagiography for Ms. Ciccone-Ritchie and some other chick singer you’ve never heard of…knock me over with a feather. There’s a writer I can take off my Read Regularly list. The creeping dementia reminds me too much of myself.
In front, in the place of honor under the carport, is the 1978 Silverado I bought one week after buying the former Tiny Bidness. It’s been sitting for two years, since I sold original Tiny Bidness, so there’s a little bit of work to do. For example, when I went to pick it up, there was softball-sized mud-dauber nest on the carb at the throttle linkage. The allure is the 454 rat motor in it. Problem is, I have no idea if it’s even worth salvaging. But there’s no reason not to try, right? Cuz that’s the kind of bash-around truck I want - carb, duallies, power steering and a radio. If I can tune this thing to be able to get on down the road for a reasonable distance and at a reasonable pace, well, there’s my hunting/camping/fishing/kayaking driver. A new seat, and battery-operated jambox in the floorboard, and I’m good to go, no?
Back behind it is the 11-year newer Ford F150 Lariat with the 351W. Pshaw on that fuel-injected over-computerized thing. “Remove it from my sight.” Well, maybe not…it’s still a decent runner, just has all those damn chips and pods and codes, and I feel like a moron when I open up the hood. Hell, I dunno…what I think I should do is engineer a trade for a 20-year-older 4×4.
As an observation — whatever happened to the bench seat? Even the baseline, so-Spartan-it-hurts newish base models have those faux split benches. A man needs to be able to set his big old fat arm on the back of the seat sometimes and rest it. And how do kids these days get their gals to snuggle up to them when blasting down a blacktop road at midnight? It never was too romantic to just hold hands over a dumb console. I say we’ve lost something in America when we decided to ditch the bench seat.
Press conference to come Friday, complete with DNA evidence and photo evidence. What I wouldn’t give to be there.
Anyway…I figure Chupacabra news needs a Sasquatch follow-up. Any more monsters that need a follow-up? Lady of the Lake sightings? Hooks dangling from car door handles?
