A Feeble Attempt At A Continued Web Presence

It appears that one might find some deficiency in my character as a result of my failure to post for so very long. I say to this person--who still maintains his North American bedroom in my home, and for whom I acquired a larger home simply because he didn't like the dearth of window treatments in his bedroom in my old home--aw, fuck it, I forgot what I was going to say. Probably something about Bill Belichick looking like a homeless person. Or something about how Rex Grossman has more motile sperm than Tom Brady. I dunno.

It's been quite a month, no? I was right, of course, about the elections, pretty close to spot on (in private conversations subsequent to that post I actually called the Senate precisely). So what? Republicans in government still suck, and they'll still be there. Of course, I'd rather my party be in control of the legislative apparatus, but it occurs to me that the potential to screw up and be labelled as shrill failures (not that there will be any truth in the labelling) is ginormous. Combined with the overwhelming likelihood that our presidential candidate will be a douche, this strikes me as frightening. But I'm just being a simpering nancyboy. Go out and govern, Democrats and alleged Democrats. You go, booyee.

I was wrong about my beloved Terrapins, too many times to link to; they managed to go 8-4, far better than my prediction. Do they suck at the 5-7 level I predicted? Actually, yeah, they do. They just managed to poop fourth-quarter golden horseshoes three more times than I thought likely. No complaints. I just hope their bowl game is against the Squidtards from Annapolis, or some other fluffed-up excuse for a D1 football team, or it's going to be pretty embarrassing. Most frightening possibility I've heard? A matchup in the Meineke Lick The Underside of My Crankshaft Bowl in some dworkwad place (Waxahatchee Springs or Minot or Tombstone or something) against the Cocks. Losing to Steve Spurrier would pretty much require ritual seppuku for anyone who's ever rubbed Testudo's nose.

In other news of the month, I travelled with my lovely bride Ilse on our honeymoon. It was okies. There was good stuff, there was less-good stuff, most particularly the weather. The sun was not particularly well-pleased to shine over the stretch of beach we occupied at, apparently, a not-quite-southerly-enough latitude. On the other hand, the Terrapin womens' basketball team was in a tournament on the island where we were staying, and our hotel was their hotel. This was pretty freakin' cool. We got to hang with some of them, by the pool or just around the property. They're very nice young persons. There's something very sweet about womens' college hoops. These people are not going to sky out of school and into sweet googabajillion dollar jobs as media stars. They're actual student-athletes, and it's really very charming. Many of the players from the other schools were very nice kids, too. It was sort of a highlight of the week (there were other highlights, about which you will not read).

Two days after my return, I slipped back into my friendly not-quite-neighborhood cardiac unit for a tuneup. I was violently opposed to this maneuver; my cardiologist, who is a terror-stricken bitch, tried to use some borderline shady result from my (pre-honeymoon) stress test to keep me from making the trip. I told him to get bent. I was right--the tuneup showed no deterioration from last year's more significant replumbing. I'm wrapping up my recovery from my visit to the shop (you may recall that there's some pretty significantly invasion prodding involved in this, like for example piercing my fucking femoral artery, among other indignities). Anyway, all clear. I'll be fully back in the saddle in a couple of days.

I don't pay much attention to things right now; life is busy, what with arterial piercings and the screams of the damned (i.e., my stepchildren), and football, and trying to get away from the damned (i.e., my day-care-deprived younger stepchild, who now enjoys my loving care before and after school) long enough to bill a few fucking hours so I can pay the nut on Doctor Death's bigger North American bedroom. Oh yeah, and Ilse actually expects me to pay attention to her occasionally. Can you imagine?

I did notice, however, that some fuckstick at Townhall wants to keep the new Islamic member of Congress from swearing his congressional oath on the Koran. If that sort of donkey-raping shiteating doesn't validate everything my side holds dear, nothing does. Nothing like a little religious tolerance. I don't hate Christians. I hate fucksticks. And you, Mister Townhall (Dennis Prager, I think it is), are a Christian fuckstick. Go rot in prison in a country that espouses your friendliness toward religions other than your own. This country ain't one of them.

No promises about posting--things are too insane right now. The mood will strike, and if you're around to see it struck, thanks for reading.