Posts Tagged ‘Seinfeld’

Regarding Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken

Thursday, 1 June 2017

Still avoiding political “news”, nonetheless, in the immortal words of J. Seinfeld: “I hear things.”

In the past 24 I’ve seen no less than three fakenews promotions seeking the opinions of Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken, one about trans-comic Kathy Griffin being edgy, another about SNL being funnier last season (somewhat true) and the last yet another falsehood for the Trump/Russia meme.  It’s truly astonishing leftards are still beating that dead horse which is now a powdered skeleton. No serious voter believes Trump/Russia, nor should they since there’s (still) zero evidence. (Evidence, facts, logic: the Holy Trinity which no liberal argument survives.)

So why the sudden interest in what Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken thinks about anything?

franken face

Fakenews is bolstering this doofus for a 2020 presidential run. No, really.

Currently, Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken denies wanting the presidency but that means nothing.  If I had the momentum I’d sure as hell do it.  Unlike Rabbi Trump, I actually give zero fucks about anything except Making America Great Again, but that’s a rant for another time. 

Cosmetically speaking, Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken has no shot at the presidency. Curly Fries hair, stupid fugly smirk, glasses and everyone’s favorite.  The bow on the package? Not remotely funny, not even by SNL standards.  When Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken traded comedy for politics, he literally had NOTHING to lose.

If Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken had won his 2008 election against Norm Coleman fairly I could leave off here, but the facts are Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken stole that election.  If Ann isn’t your cup of tea, google or youtube “Al Franken stole election.”

Whether you lose an election by a single vote, or 725 like Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken YOU STILL LOSE.

Because RINOs didn’t fight Election Thief/Failed Comedian Al Franken’s fraudulent victory, communistcrats were able to pass obozocare.

Hard to decide who’s worse, Republicans for being spineless thots or democrats for existing.

 

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A plague of implausible shit

Thursday, 25 September 2008

I stood next to my car in a surreal neighboorhood. On one side of the street were small houses with well-manicured lawns. I was parked in a GUEST spot of the dodgy housing complex across the street while Julio, a friend from work who was 10 years younger than me, looked over my 12-year-old car. Both he and his still younger brother Sal seemed to love my model of car, they’d turned some of them into racers. They knew exactly what they were talking about while I, with minimal knowledge, was cartarded.

The Florida sun was its typical gluey asshole self, though there was some nice breeze as both young men admired the engine. They’d already figured out the source of a rattle a mechanic 30 years older than all of us I took it to never found. Sal was still tinkering when Julio left to pick up his kids from school.

An 80K Mercedes pulled into the spot on the other side of the empty space where I stood sipping ice water from a plastic pink tumbler the brothers had brought me earlier. Though the Black woman driving the ‘Cedes did not look like she could afford her ride and took no notice of us, I felt shame at my own car’s beat-up condition, even though, as Sal pointed out, I loved it and had it longer than a marriage.

As I took another swig of this and brought the cup down something crashed into my chest, striking my sternum with the force of a flicked pinkie finger. I looked down, saw the color brown and flinched. throwing the cup’s entire contents into the sky, a momentary crystal geyser.

The brown thing bounced away, hit the pavement and began scuttling–a flying roach!–its ugly carapace shining in the bright summer sun. I wanted to scream but I’d just met Sal and the fat Black woman still sat in her cream-white coupe, bumping low-volumed, noxious R&B.

“Kill it!” Sal hollered playfully. I was too frozen, too in shock to move. Horror and confusion were my world. It was 2 in the afternoon on a hot, sunny day; a roach was as out of place as a bundled Eskimo in Iraq. He skittered away on foot (or leg) while I stood frozen. I couldn’t step on a roach, not even with shoes on, and anyway, similar to George Costanza’s “deal” with the pigeons, I wouldn’t kill any insects out of doors (mosquitos excluded).

Julio returned. His cute kids, a boy and a girl, were munchkin-sized with huge heads and went upstairs before the Ice Cream man drove up the street, the (c)rap from his stereo even
drowning out the ice cream tunes. Julio told us the guy was always at the local park on the 1st and 15th, blasting Bone Thugs-N-Harmony.
“On his stereo?”
“No! On the loudspeakers!”
Surreal.

The fat Black woman egressed her German sled and entered one of the duplexes. Julio commented the car was probably a boyfriend’s. Though I didn’t say it aloud, it made cops’ jobs easier to find the drug dealers with cars like that in front of faded duplexes in the ‘hood.

Throughout the day’s ops I snapped digital pics of my beloved car with my Kodak v550, a gift from my editor/webmaster/gifted photographer/longstanding Texan friend. I lifted the cam to take another shot of the disassembled door panel when I noticed the LCD screen mired in shadow. When I held it up to the strong sunlight, the shadow stayed.

I felt my guts sag.

The screen was cracked as if some tiny punk kid inside the camera had hit a home run and a pea-sized baseball had struck the glass, starring it. This morning the cam started out working flawlessly as it had the last 3.5 years. I’d already taken 20 shots (the memory card held a thousand) and there’d been no trauma or anything unusual done to it, in fact, I was holding it most of the afternoon.

I didn’t bother showing Julio the damage. Time ran out. I’d lost a camera but gained a replacement knob for my window crank. More work is to be done tomorrow.

It’s events like those of today that cause one to seriously ponder the sucking undertow under the roiling ocean of life. After years of neglect, I finally take steps to help my poor old car’s infirmities with a too-good-to-be-true honorable guy who enjoys working on my type of car, only to suffer two inexplicable lightning bolts of horror and bizarre bad fortune. Between the roach from nowhere and the undeserving death of my beloved camera, I can’t help but feel screwed, though tomorrow my car may run somewhat better.

More than the big disasters like quakes and cyclones, it’s these little tragedies that enforce the theory of a sinister balance to the universe. Intellectually I understand why shit happens, but I refuse to accept that any shit has to happen to me. How human.