I slept in, while Tam chortled over the hooting and posturing on This Face The Press/Meet The Nation-Week, one of those dreadful, over-lit, pundit-haunted temporary hells that dissect current events with the same degree of insight and wit as a basement huddle of cow-college sophomores in very recent possession of their first fake ID.
It's nothing I can face unfortified by coffee and carbs, so I pulled the intervening doors nearly to and burrowed back under the covers with a pillow over my head. When I awoke, it was all over except for the faint whiff of ersatz brimstone, a rusty and slightly bent campaign button for Mr. O---- and a few white feathers floating in the blovaited air.
Whew! That was a close one!
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago