​As is evident, I am obsessed with this election, fretting constantly to where we got to a place in this country where if a certain candidate does not win a small but vocal group of meatheads threatened the rest of us with the probability of a new Civil War. Not exactly a fodder for relaxing and restful sleep. I think often of how we got this way and I keep coming back to the turning point of this whole mess. No, not Ronald Reagan. Although Ronnie did release the throngs of mentally challenged individuals back into our streets, we need to go back a bit further. I speaking of a man named Howard Jarvis, the “we are being taxed to death” ass-wipe. His whiskey-soaked and tobacco throated battle cry was soon answered by other childless and retired homeowners who decided for everyone else that the cost of good schools and an excellent education was just too high. First to go was the arts, followed closely by athletics and all other extracurricular scholarly pursuits. It didn’t take long before classrooms got larger and lessons became easier and we the students, got just plain stupider. 
 
I don’t blame rap, comic books or even comic book movies, although I do believe that movies overall during the last twenty years have mostly catered to the lowest common denominator. Most of us do not read, shun newspapers and get their intellectual fodder from social media such as Facebook. For every one person who does read a newspaper, I will give you 25 more who follow Q Anon and religiously watch and follow Fox News.
 
We truly get the government we deserve. We certainly did in 2016. The question is, do we have a chance to turn it all around. Maybe. Quite frankly, maybe not. We have three more days until November 3rd.  A final chance to maybe climb out of this tub of shit that we placed ourselves in. Most of you have already voted, and are like me, huddled in a corner, a thumb in your mouth fretting over where you should race over to the nearest Bass Sporting Goods Store to pick up a pump action shotgun or a Walther PPK.  What do you think?

“Walther PPK, 7.65 millimeter, with a delivery like a brick through a plate-glass window. The American CIA swear by them.”
Sir Sean Connery
August 25, 1930 - Oct 31, 2020. Rest in Peace

​Well, not exactly cholera, but still shoulders deep in a pandemic, saddled beside the worst presidency of anyone’s lifetime, so, much like anytime served in a soviet gulag, finding a good belly laugh can be difficult. Rest assured, they are out there and hella easy to find.

I get most of my truly great laughs nowadays from the exploits of those currently in power. Let’s face it, the current administration is the Dead End Kids of politics. Whether it’s storming off an interview with Lesley Stahl from 60 Minutes, or hawking magic potions that can cure us all of COVID, they are always up to something. Shakespearean in scope, tragic in results and comical in everything they do, this is the administration of Donald J Trump. These are the times we live in so as ready to paint lamb blood on our doors November 3rd while praying for a redeemer, let’s all take a collective breath and celebrate some of the good times we all shared.
Rev. Falwell in a corner of the room, masked in shadow, peering around a corner while his sacredly betrothed wife gets it in on with a Florida pool boy. And, while we’re at it, how about his picture which he was stupid enough to post to social media with his pants undone and his arm around a female half his age. Honestly, I’d say these jokes write themselves but they’re not so much jotted down but unfold before our disbelieving eyes like a full blooming flower.
 
And it is worth noting, this is the Family Values Administration.
 
How about the cajones of one Steve Bannon, Seinfeld producer, Breitbart founder, Presidential Advisor and a man who never tires going on about that the rights of the forgotten American male? He was busted for mail fraud aboard a yacht, selling shares for portions of the government funded wall. I guess it was much like buying a brick with your name on it at a sport’s arena, accept you get the bragging rights to an entire portion of wall. 
​
​There’s Roger, tattoo of Nixon on his back, Stone sharing his wife and MILF on a sex-sharing site.
 
And don’t forget Trump joking to share his Press Secretary with the President of North Korea.
 
And the list goes on, and on and on…
 
But my favorite, the cherry on the top of this vile mess of corruption:

Rudy “The Red Skull” Giuliani. The personal lawyer of the President and confidant, laying on a bed with his hands halfway down his pants while a girl who he believes is 15 stands close by. 
Tucking in his shirt, is the excuse. A blatant disregard to norms, laws and morals is the reason. His blatant act sort of sums up the last four years for me.  

Drain the swamp. Lock him/her up. Hunter Biden. These are all deflections of what has been going on the last four years as fat, corrupt, billionaires raped and pillaged you and this country. 

Remember all that and vote!
 

​So, in this never-ending onslaught of rogue viruses, vile politicians and ongoing threat of death by raging wildfire, I find myself returning to the only place where I can find any lasting inner peace, the film adaptation of Hello Dolly starring Barbara Streisand. In the last few weeks I find myself returning more and more, like some crazed heroin addict jonesing for yet another hit of Babs.I don’t even really how I ended up in such dire straits. One minute I’m minding my own business attempting to find out when the 2nd season of Mandalorian starts, the next I’m putting on my Sunday clothes because I feel down and out. 
 
I really do need help. While normal people have tunes such as Ran$om by Lil Tecca echoing around in their head, I have Before the Parade Passes By and It Only Takes a Moment slowly eating away at my brain stem. While record numbers fearing the Apocalypse stand patiently in line at Bass Pro Shops to get a handgun, I am perusing Amazon for a decent priced Dolly Blu-Ray.
 
It certainly doesn’t make any sense and I can’t even try to explain it. For God’s Sake, Walter Matthau sings for Christ’s sake! I’m at my wits end. I have even attempted imputing different musicians in hopes of purging Jerry Herman from my brain cavity. But, it’s no use. Babs isn’t going anywhere. And it’s getting worse. Tomorrow I’ll be driving around my neighborhood, Hello Dolly flags fluttering from the bed of my pickup with Just Leave Everything to Me blaring from the stereo speakers. 
 
Please consider my cry of, “Look, I’m dancing!” as a cry for help.

Editors Note: It was bound to happen. But let's face facts. It's either vote this orange piece of shit out now or, God forbid and he does not leave peacefully, go all French Revolution on his ass. 

As my burning,  all consuming hatred for our current President, Donald J Trump grows like a raging Northern CA wildfire, I feel it is only fitting that I post some of my favorite images of said bastard as a way of celebrating my loathing for this most despicable human being ever to infest our planet. I have utilized all of the following images faithfully, attaching them to tweets directed to the president and are usually accompanied by my sincerest wish that he “fuck off” very soon.  I am proud to say that since posting said verses,  I’ve not been banned from the Twitterverse and can only assume that a good number of you feel the same way. Posting such wishes with unbridled enthusiasm does, however, carry some degree of risk. But, what the heck. He stays, like the rest of you like minded haters, it’s full on sprint to the nearest border.
​

Pictured: A rather tame sample of my daily tweets to a tyrant

In closing, he really is a useless bag of racist, orange shit.
 
Anyway, without further adieu, I present my favorite Presidential Portraits of Donald J. Trump. Who knows they may even end up in his Presidential Library. And, if things go my way, the library will be located in Dannemora Maximum Correctional Facility.
 
​

​Introducing the new seasons of Northern California: 
 
Dry Winter, Early Summer, Hot Summer and my least favorite season of the year, Fire. Most of you know it as good ol’ fashioned fall; a time when the leaves turn to a golden rust and drop from the trees and only to be raked for fear of the soggy droppings clogging up the storm drains. The leaves in Northern CA turn as well; to a crackling, dry consistency of an overcooked potato chip, shattering at the slightest touch. The sky is never the cold, dark of an impending rain shower but mostly from a lack of visible sun. We do have an ever-present ash, gently falling, collecting in the tops of our cars, dusting the streets and sidewalks our neighborhoods and collecting in the deep recesses of our lungs. Doesn’t it just make you just want to go outside and make a snow angel? This is our 3rd fire for us. Like hurricanes, the scientists and fire fighters have names for the hellish infernos now. This one closest to us is called, “Not another fucking fire,” and is two percent contained.  
 
In short, life is pretty much as it was presented in the movie, Interstellar. All that is missing is the corn. I tell you this not for your sympathy but to gently nudge you toward the conclusion that things are changing. The earth has become irate, consistently probed, choked, raped and pillaged. Her jungles have been cleared, her forests “managed,” her water exploited, her crust baked, a growing number of native species made extinct. And still there are people who say that this is all normal, that the earth will remarkably bounce back. Well, maybe the earth will, in a million years or so. Call me cynical, but I don’t think we will. Maybe that is a good thing. Lately, as a species, we seem pretty anxious to prove that we’re not worthy to be stewards of something that was once so wonderful. Civilization is hurtling toward the world of Soylent Green, Interstellar and Running Man and we choose to ignore it in favor of the conspiracy rambling of a group of called Q. Jesus, we deserve what we get. 
 
There are, no doubt, a few of you that believe, well why you don’t you just stop living there. You can always move. And, if we can find someone to buy a house teetering on the precipice overlooking hell itself, we will. If we do move, it will most likely buy us a year or two. I am of the firm belief, and I am sure a few scientists will back me up on this, that soon the seasons all over the world will be changing. It doesn’t take Randy Quaid and the director of Independence Day to convince me of that. I see it every day. It seems Mother Nature is calling out to us, “You can run, but you can’t hide, mother-earth fuckers.” Maybe that is why most of my fellow citizens prefer to bury their heads in the sand. The view is better down there.

Deep breath!  
​
Okay, and now for a tiny bit of good news. Another great review of Son of Ravage from the legendary comic book and pulp fiction writer, Ron Fortier. It will not put out any fires but is certainly appreciated.  Thanks, Ron!

And, BTW, message recieved. It’s hangar, not hanger.