Fringeville #155: Ramblings

I may have inadvertently committed involuntary rodentslaughter.

My wife found a mouse/mole/whothehellknowswhatitis floating in a garbage can outside the house. I don’t know how the little peckerwood got in there, but it was a one-way trip. The theory is the dumbass was in the can, which was on its side after the tornado and which I picked back up, trapping him within.

The Mickey Mouse Club has informed me that I am permanently barred from applying for membership.

Out of respect for the dead, I took no pictures of the crime scene before unceremoniously dumping him where the members of the legions of feral cats in my neighborhood can find their latest cat toy. Rumors that I sprinkled catnip on the remains are likely untrue.

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I continue to watch and read the level of hysteria in the media and among many of my Democrat friends over President Trump.

I was able to recover immediately after the last President was elected (twice) for one simple reason: I have a fundamental faith in our Constitution and in the balance of power between the branches of our government. Go a little wild, and you will be slapped down.

I didn't hyperventilate at my keyboard for eight years every time the previous President overreached, because I knew in many cases whatever he did would ultimately be reversed. I also think the real damage done is by those in local offices. That’s where your wallet is hit the hardest, and they are very happy to worm their way into it (if you’re not sure about that, look at your school taxes).

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...Jimbo, apparently we have a failure to communicate.

I don’t think God wants me to run for any office whether public or party (except for GOP County Committee, where He apparently approves).

A few years ago, I ran for State Committee. I got prostate cancer. Now I’m about to file for a local municipal office, and my supposedly curable cancer has recurred.

I’m not saying there’s a linkage between politics and cancer, but my personal statistics are suspicious.

Fortunately, the voluminous research I have done assures me that I am more likely to die choking on a chicken wing bone than to pass on from prostate cancer. Even if it does send me on to that great Hooters in the sky, I can probably run for office repeatedly before it does me in. Probably.

In any case, it will be another summer of choosing between several shit-sandwich choices for treatment.

So over the next few days I’m filing my petition and getting a referral to an oncologist before ramping up my usual door-to-door campaign.

Happy trails. And if anything unexpectedly goes wrong, you can look forward to the funeral brunch (hopefully in 10-15 years):

...Cajun Bleu or mild? There's Guinness and Yuengling on the buffet table.

 

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