Where do Trumpies go when they die? It’s a question. One I knew is in a box now, in crumbs, covered over with plain graveyard dirt. The stone doesn’t say Here Lies a Man Who Voted for Bully. But it’s true. He grinned—this was maybe 2016—when Bully’s name came up at the dinner table, and I snapped, “Don’t you ever laugh about him again.” Something like that—I forget what, exactly. It wiped the smile right off his face. But not for long. Then, that a proud pussy grabber could be running for president was what dominated the headlines. We weren’t talking pardons for insurrectionists, techie DOGE boys accessing government information (old news, yes yes), a police-run society . Obviously, nobody burned to a powder can ever again cast a ballot in favor of a lecherous narcissist, but voting as the man reduced to crumbs did, twice, is now his spiritual legacy. Tuesday, Heather Cox Richardson posted this: “While the Senate considered the [Big Beautiful Bill] today, President Donald J. Trum...
Friday Afternoon En route to cousin Ann’s house, relegated to the back seat, I keep clicking clicking, trying to catch perfectly son and mother. But what’s more telling is the visit. We’re met by Ann at her front door. I’m right behind Mom, ready to grab at her if she topples. “Now you’re a spring chicken!” I announce to Ann, because it’s Mom, not Ann, who’s 95. Spring chicken relatively speaking, I mean, because being around somebody ancient makes you suddenly young. I’m practically a chick today. But right away Ann, her round eyes a-sparkle, lets out that she’s 91. Oh my. Paulson and I didn’t realize. As we navigate past her, what else flies out of her mouth is a Bible verse, although for all I know it’s Ben Franklin. “They that compare themselves among themselves are not wise,” she chortles. Paulson loves it. I love it. We laugh and laugh. She’s always been a wit. Clearly she still has it in her. Circumlocution is such a bear at this age. An outing like this, aw...
When the Song, Not Just the Groundhog, Got Cooked Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. Robert Frost, “The Road Not Taken.” So it goes. Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five. (Stock photo. For illustration purposes only.) On a tangible hillside in honest-to-goodness hilly Pittsburgh, actual man is robbed of his bush berries in broad unfiltered daylight. Culprit is furry, breathing. Actual man clobbers culprit and cooks culprit’s wet pink meat. Actual man makes quiche, perceptible steam puffing out. Man carries dish to party, yum yum. True story gets around. Man’s breathing sister in fields-and-cows Virginia tells some other breathing people. One says, her thoughts coming hot on the air, “That sounds like a country song: Kill a groundhog and put it in a quiche. Tell him to write a song.” Breathing sister does. Actual man does. Man jiggers words around in his pulpy brain and sends them to his machine, making it blink but no...
Before this, I belabored our posters . Even using fat, chisel-type Sharpies, it took me forever. But a couple of days ago, lecturing myself on slobbiness’s advantages, I simply patched and pasted and Scotch-taped together enough pieces of paper with words on and put them in the car. An oldish fellow—one of the regulars, which I’m not—was already there when I turned into the parking lot next to Representative Cline’s office. You’d think Oldish has a degree in law or maybe political science. He’s precise about his knowledge, genteel, yet blunt. His posters are never spectacular. When I got out of my car with my poor excuse of a billboard, he was photographing a man in an orange T-shirt. Orange looked at me. “You can’t park here.” “Who are you?” I asked, in my best belligerent good-Christian voice. Between the two of them, something unpleasant was going on. In front of Cline’s office, all over the sidewalk, lay construction-worker equipment. “The owner. You have to move your car....
A bit strange (the post, not the dog)
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