Another Friday cast off to Valhalla, and with it another motherfucking week decapitated, vivisected and left to the animals. And yet, the weeks keep coming, they are legion, and one day, some day, a week will come along that bests me.
I’m cheered the fuck up.
How are y’all?
Here, for yours truly, it’s 11:46AM PDT and I’ve never wanted a drink more than I do right now. Never in my entire life.
So we’re shooting about PAR.
Out there in the world, a significant portion of Louisiana being underwater for going on two weeks, all anyone seems to talk about is a swimmer who says he got robbed in Rio, while the Brazillians insist he fabricated the whole thing. Caught on video, it looks like security at a gas station tried to shake down the swimmer(s) and a fiasco ensued.
Yet I could not give two flying fucks.
Trump’s going to either LOSE BIG or WIN BIGGER, depending on who’s talking. The polls are so all over the road it’s tough to get any kind of actual indication – some show it a tight race nationally, some show a Clinton blowout. State polls, however, almost all point to a growing and near-insurmountable Trump loss. By the state polls, battleground states like Virginia, Colorado, North Carolina, Florida and Pennsylvania are all double-digit leads for The Cripple Cunton, while ordinarily safe states like Georgia and Utah seem poised to flip blue as well.
BUT IT’S ONLY THE MIDDLE OF AUGUST, FOR FUCK’S SAKE.
None of these matter, really, until we’re approaching the end of September.
And I mean that in both directions, both for the corrupt apparatchiks insisting The Cripple Cunton has already won this thing and to the Trumpkins predicting a MONDALEAN landslide.
SHUT THE FUCK UP, THE BOTH OF YOU.
Another weekend, another list of unaccomplished projects, yet I keep making lists.
That’s all I know.
Get ‘em y’all, and yourselves an excellent weekend.
Cold, Cold Ground
Franks Wild Years
Island Records | 1987