January 2016

You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January 2016.

Rand Paul. Pure goof. Sorry. What happened at Woodstock should have stayed at Woodstock.

Ben Carson. He’s not a president. He’s a fine and gentle man.

Jeb Bush. He’s not his father. Or even his brother.

Marco Rubio. Too young, too soon, and not enough chainsaws to get the job done.

Ted Cruz. Watch what he does. Fast on the draw.

Mike Huckabee. Yippee Ki Yay. Won’t work. And he’s also fat.

Donald Trump. Rock Star.

Charles Murray has the same birthday as Einstein and Hawking, which he proudly pronounced. My wife looked up my birthday and found that I share a birthday with Urban Meyer, Arthur Ashe, Marcel Proust, and Nikola Tesla, whom Einstein pronounced the greatest genius of all time. There was page after page of July 10 babies, but no mention of the one I remembered above all.

She was hot.

She was hot.

Sarah Virginia Wade, OBE (born 10 July 1945) is a British former professional tennis player. She won three Grand Slam singles championships and four Grand Slam doubles championships, and is the only British woman in history to have won titles at all four Grand Slam tournaments. She was ranked as high as No. 2 in the world in singles, and No. 1 in the world in doubles. She won the women’s singles championship at Wimbledon on 1 July 1977, in that tournament’s centenary year, and was the last British tennis player to have won a Grand Slam singles tournament until Andy Murray won the US Open in 2012. She remains the last British female to have won a Grand Slam singles title. After retiring from competitive tennis, she coached for four years[3] and has also worked as a tennis commentator and game analyst for the BBC and Eurosport.

She was hot hot hot.

She was hot hot hot.

And a one handed backhand. Beat that, you millennial brats.

Lindsey Graham — Such a touching moment when Lindsey reached out to Melissa Etheridge. She didn’t mean to break his hand. No doubt his campaign would have gotten a big boost without that.

Martin and John are waiting for you in the green room, Lindsey.

Martin and John are waiting for you in the green room, Lindsey.

George Pataki — Yeah. No Sinatra. Just what passes for him in Albany.

Laugh, clown laugh.

Laugh, clown laugh.

Rick Santorum. Speaking of which, let go the clowns. Learn to laugh at yourself. Best we can do.

Carly Fiorina. She’s a hurricane all right. But one heading out to sea, spent in the Pacific. Still like her for the VP slot aimed at taking out Hillary.

Chris Christie. What else sums him up so well?

John Kasich. One word. Boring. Hillary isn’t. Monstrous and evil but never boring.

It’s tough to be a U.S. Marine from the heart of old Confederacy and a liberal squish at the same time.

Thinking Jim Webb won’t be able to reconcile the two.

Oops. Watch those Bernie Sanders hands.

Oops. Watch those Bernie Sanders hands.

Me and Billy JayCee.

I’ll start with Hillary. This relationship goes way wa-a-a-y back to the sixties. Here they were.

Playing at Revolution at Yale.

Playing at Revolution at Yale.

Think anything’s really changed? Twin sociopaths determined to win power at any cost. Arkansas trash and Illinois trash on the LSD trip of an aeon. How will it end. Probably with an overdose of power, sex, and perversion.

Of course, you’re free to nominate your own campaign song for Hillary.

John Belushi as Joe Cocker. Way closer than you think.

Well. Bernie Sanders.

Wait till his night comes.

Wait till his night comes.

He’s also an imitation. Lenin and Stalin are dead. But he waves his arms around like an old man who isn’t entirely deceased, like all his ideas are. You know. Prop him up with some idiot blonde coeds and a pianist who can play a few bars of classics from the past and he seems like he just might be current. Instead of a completely crazed moron on the ragged edge of death.

Again, feel free to nominate your own.

Clay Aiken. “Invisible.”

Martin O’Malley. Yes he is.

Hi. I'm not really here. Just holding a place for John Edwards. Who said he'd be back as soon as he got an ice cream for his newest wife.

Hi. I’m not really here. Just holding a place for John Edwards. Who said he’d be back as soon as he got an ice cream for his newest wife.

John Edwards here. Remember what I said about two Americas? It's. There's Hillary's and there's yours. Hers is clearly better unless you can find it in your heart to like me.

John Edwards here. Remember what I said about two Americas? There’s Hillary’s and there’s yours. Hers is clearly better unless you can find it in your heart to like me.

Feel free.

Tomorrow or sometime, the Republicans. We’ll be just as unsparing.


I’m the go to guy here for supermarket shopping in bad weather. We’ve got one about three miles away, which is convenient though it’s also for old people, and we are old people, but we don’t always want the miniature box of Cheezits, the demi-can of Campbell’s soup, the fat free bacon, the three pack of eggs, the limitation to one stick of butter, or the 3/4 pound roaster chicken. But at least they don’t card us for the giant megapack of Mucinex.

Anyway, we agreed last night when the wind chill was –3 Fahrenheit that what we needed was a tummy warming tuna casserole. I said we should plan ahead and also prepare for a subsequent hamburger stroganoff. (Yes we are gourmands, New Jersey style). So today I headed out for the Incollingo’s market with the following list.


For once, everything went swimmingly, except for the other oldsters who block aisles contemplating which combination of salt-free, fat-free junk food they want to put in their carts. And the weird scruffy looking people with no store badges performing some sort of sweep out the lower shelves ritual while sprawled across the floor with legs akimbo. I used the senior klaxon horn on my cart to clear the way.

Burned right through the list, which, as usual, was in no particular order regarding the organization of the store. But I have one of those extraordinary minds. Kind of like Charlie in Numb3rs, I can reconcile the list with my memory of the store and pick off the items with extraordinary speed and efficiency while navigating a sensible and linear route through the aisles.

I was out of there in 20 minutes. I even got the greatest supermarket cashier of all time, who knew immediately I wanted the cold stuff in one bag and I wanted everything in paper AND plastic. Not only that. I managed to snag a pint of sour cream for the hamburger stroganoff and two cans of Bean with Bacon Campbell’s soup which my wife had told me was no longer available, neither of which products were on her list.

Upon my triumphant return I put away the cold items while my better half put away the pantry items. As I prepared to return upstairs, she said, “Maybe I missed it. Where is the tuna?”

I don’t know how it goes in your house. She looked at my face and started laughing. Then I started laughing. There’s no explanation and no excuse. It’s just funny.

So I’ll be making hamburger stroganoff tonight. And after I return with a solitary mission to Incollingo’s tomorrow, we’ll have tuna casserole.

Happy ending.

Not all pugs are fat. Weenie isn't.

Not all pugs are fat. Weenie isn’t.

Life is funny. Downright perverse sometimes. On Facebook, lots of people regard me as a nasty crabby thing. I even got defriended a couple of times last year. But here at home, with the four dogs and a cat, nasty and crabby as some of them can be, I’m the go to guy, the best lap, the one place they never have to explain themselves. Our Scotty doesn’t talk to anyone but me. The deerhound loves his mommy but understands every word I say. The cat has to be on my lap every night. And Eloise, to whom I am intensely allergic, likes nothing better than to be on my hip as close as Elliott.

So she would like you to know that she wishes you all a truly gorgeous and wonderful New Year. [Sneeze sneeze sneeze sneeze]

God bless her.

I am Eloise. I am six. Twice.

I am Eloise. I am six. Twice.

And then there’s Rae. Who really is six and owns more of my lap than all of the others combined.

Dog PhDs are smart. They miss the fact that dogs are intelligent. Some of of them Very.

Dog PhDs are smart. They miss the fact that dogs are intelligent. Some of of them Very.

When it starts, fight or die.

Win any way we can.

New Year. Go get’em. Fuck’em.

Here’s what I guarantee you. Right now, my mother and both her parents are sitting bolt upright in their graves. Ohio State vs Notre Dame. According to their collective memory, the Buckeyes have never beaten the Antichrist called the Fighting Irish. All the breaks, all the referee calls, all the penalties always go against Ohio State, increasing exponentially the later into the game you get.

My wife will be watching the game. I will be hiding under the couch.


Run for your life. Correction. Run for your soul.

Run for your life. Correction. Run for your soul.

See ya. Couch time.

The Kermit Mosh

The Kermit Mosh

Rikki Rikki Tavi.

Rikki Tikki Tavi.

Sonnet for 2016

I’m a grey.
I’m here with you but only half.
I sleep but not far away
I run and run every single day
But I am still in every way but one
The part that waits for word or hand
When I need the kindness of a man.

I’m a grey.
I’m on the couch, I have a pet or two
Soft and friendly, just like you.
I’m here with you but only half.
The other half with clouds and lights
Way over you.

I am a grey, half at home with you.

Newer entries »